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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520937">Parables of Yeshua</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneequuis/pseuds/nocturneequuis'>nocturneequuis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Manna from Heaven, Whiskey from Hell [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Backstory, Canon Compliant, Crowley Backstory, of the ineffables and yeshua, or my best attempt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:15:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneequuis/pseuds/nocturneequuis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The arrival of the Son of God is a big deal, and though Crawley knows it would be better to leave well enough alone, her curiosity drives her to seek him out, even though meeting him might change her for good.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Manna from Heaven, Whiskey from Hell [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Parable of Wine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the hottest day of the hottest month of the year and the streets of Tiberias were baked dry with it. Brilliant sunlight bowled down every street, save for the narrowest alleys and even the slightest stir of breeze kicked up dirt and sand from the thirsty ground. Crawley tugged the corner of the dark <em>abaya</em> closer over her nose, trying to save it from the stinging grit- and winced around the place.</p><p>It was a good sized city. Not the biggest she’d seen but not the smallest either. There were at least multiple buildings of more than one floor, guarding the road like rose-sand colored sentinels. There were <em>people</em> about too. She could hear a few laconic calls from the market street not far from here. Pretty good considering the time of day when most humans would rather be inside in the cool to escape the oppressive heat. </p><p>The only relief from it was that wind, which, aside from the grit, carried with it the scent of water. The Sea of Galilee which Tiberias abutted. Crawley had never been there but had heard great things about the fishing. She was going to be fished if she wasn’t careful, she thought, turning her head away as a thin merchant with an overloaded donkey meandered slowly by in the opposite direction. Why she was here, she couldn’t say.</p><p>Well she <em>could </em>say, but she didn’t much like it and it was frankly suicidal. She hadn’t even intended to come here. She’d just gotten off a temptation in lower Scythopolis, which might soon be known for an absolutely <em>stunning </em>brothel, whatever that was and had heard that there was some ass end of a donkey up in Tiberias who <em>some </em>people were calling the Son of God.</p><p>For the most part, Crawly had avoided that whole affair. She wasn’t <em>that </em>suicidal after all. The moment the rumor of Bethlehem had gotten started, every demon from here to Judea had made serious tracks. Even Crawley had been tempted by the very relative safety of Hell to remaining on Earth and be blasted by holy light, but had instead opted to hide in a small town just outside of Babylon where she’d accidentally become a minor deity. Hadn’t been a bad life really. Hang about in a nice comfortable shrine, stare at humans with an unsettling gaze, favor one offering over the other just to get a fight started. Anything could get a fight started, it seemed. She couldn’t remember Adam or Even being half so fractious but then on the other hand she’d heard about the Cain thing which always signaled a bad time.</p><p>Point was, after a couple of years and no immediate smiting had happened, the others crept back out of Hell and went back to work. Naturally Crawley had been sent back to Judea first to test the waters. She knew she was the sacrificial goat in this situation. It was expected. But she also didn’t care as the All Blighty sure as hell didn’t seem to.</p><p>It might not be the real Son of God, Crawley thought, ducking into a side alley for the cool shade and to move in relative freedom. The Son of God became a huge trend before and after the Event. She’d run into three Sons of God just on accident in the past few years. Of course the first one had her running from town as fast as her feet could carry her, but figured he was probably a fluke after he got caught picking the purses of the wealthy and redistributing it to himself and a lot of happy prostitutes.</p><p>This might be another fake Son of God. So what if it was the only one she’d heard of this close to Nazareth? So what if she’d heard more rumors of angels lurking in the corners of the city? Joke was on them. Angels didn’t lurk. Lurking was a demon thing. Anyway, who ever heard of an angel eating their weight in stuffed figs?  </p><p>But if it really <em>was </em>the Son of God… what kind of person would he be? What exactly was the Almighty trying to <em>do </em>even? She had heard more rumors about the whys and the general consensus was that he was going to be the savior of all mankind. Which. Good sodding luck with that, she thought. Humanity couldn’t even save itself from itself, let alone when Big Head Upstairs decided that THEY wanted a do over and—well not drowned everyone maybe but something. Flood was only one way to kill something. Could be fires next. Great winds. Humans being smushed by falling stars. Sometimes she thought THEY created humans to be like ants just to have the pleasure of stepping on them.</p><p>So the Son of God was probably an extension of that. Stood to reason. Some big barrel chested man like that John guy who took weird pleasure in ducking people underwater while seriously looking like he needed a bath himself. She shook her head. Humanity.</p><p>The alley ended here and she winced as she came out onto the street again under the bright hot sun. The air had completely stilled and even the vendors in the market had lowered their voices to reedy whines. Crawley was wondering if she really wanted to traverse the city in hopes of spotting one burly demi-god. She was almost tempted to say to Hell with the whole thing when she spotted the tavern.</p><p> It was a nice little place, seaside view and all. A cloth awning and had been stretched out and long tables were set up underneath where a few humans had gathered. It would be darker under there and she could watch from the safety of the shadows without being watched in turn. Maybe the Son of God wouldn’t pass by, but maybe she could hear about him.</p><p>Decision made, Crowley sat herself at least populated ends of one of the tables and rested her chin on her fist. Maybe because it was closer to the water and things were cooler, or maybe it was some sort of branching of a main thoroughfare, but more people passed back and forth here. She watched them as they passed. Too old to be the Son of God. Too young to be the Son of God. She was pretty sure the Son of God wouldn’t try to sell anyone a sundial.</p><p>But maybe—that guy. Crawley raised her head. Tall, long hair—most importantly dressed in a shining whit raiment and surrounded by laughing children. Unless they were all his and <em>Grandchildren</em> of God was not something Crawley even wanted to think about. She watched him set down a little wooden plinth and stand on it, raising his hands in the air as if getting ready to speak. People gathered to him chattering excitedly. Crawley could feel a real energy start to boil up from the crowd.</p><p>“What will you have,” a scarred man near her elbow grumbled. Crawley blinked stupidly at the interruption, absently tugging the <em>abaya</em> back in place like a shy woman. It was a pain to be a shy woman, but it was even more of a pain to be chased out of town by a local rabbi or priest once someone got a look of her eyes. People were jumpy about demons these days and she wasn’t about to risk calling on demonic powers in the Son of God’s home country.</p><p>“What?” She said quietly, hoping her tone would be enough to soften him.</p><p>“What will you have?” the scarred man continued hard as granite. “Or are you just warming my bench for fun.”</p><p>“She’ll have some Galilee Red,” said a scruffy man that had managed to sneak up entirely too close to Crawley’s other shoulder for comfort. “And some for me too.”</p><p>The scarred man glared, an expression made even more impressive by said scars, and wandered off.</p><p>“Don’t mind old Noam,” said the scruffy man. “He’s had some hard times.”  And then. “Do you mind?” he gestured a broad hand at the bench as if asking to sit.</p><p>“Go ahead,” Crawley said, not wanting to cause a complication when the supposed and probably real Son of God began to speak. He had a sizable crowd now. So much so they were crowding into the shade under the awning until some of the servers pushed them out into the sun again.</p><p>“Where are you from?” said the scruffy man and Crawley resisted the temptation to glue his lips together a little while. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to listen.</p><p>“Scythopolis,” she said, which was true mostly anyway.</p><p>“I’ve been through there. Not a bad place. I have an Auntie there that lives near the street of Seven Reeds.  Maybe you know her?”</p><p>“Don’t go down that street much,” Crawley said and hoped it was the end of it. She didn’t dare look at his face, but it seemed by the way his fingers flicked against each other lightly that he had more questions. <em>Thankfully</em> he didn’t ask and instead said:</p><p>“Oh look. Himself is about to speak. Get a load of this, you’ll love it.”</p><p>Crawley relaxed a bit. She could appreciate that kind of dry sarcasm in a human. She could especially appreciate a human that seemed to know when to stop.</p><p>The Son of God straightened on the little plinth and said:</p><p>“Gather ye close, O children of Tiberias! For the time of judgement is at hand!” He had a good voice for it, Crawley had to admit. It was strong and clear with perfect syllables, nothing slurred or dropped—which she’d found was important to humans for some reason. It was almost like they thought the better you sounded, the better you were. Oxenshite, in her opinion, but no one ever asked her.</p><p>“Listen close and harken to my message, so that I may save thee with these two hands.” And he showed them to the audience who murmured appreciatively. They were nice hands too, Crawley thought. But there were was some kind of …<em>something </em>on them to make them whiter than they ought to be. Powder, he thought, or some kind of cream. Because humans tended to think that the paler you looked, the holier you were.</p><p>Crawley really couldn’t speak to holiness, but there was something about the Son of God acting like just any street performer or charlatan that put a bad taste in her mouth. Shouldn’t he be better than that?</p><p>“Blind them with those two hands more like,” Crawley muttered. The scruffy man burst out a single laugh that carried and slapped the table.</p><p>“<em>Ave!</em>” he said. Which was something the Romans used to say ‘well met’ and Crawley figured was a good thing. Except the local Judeans didn’t seem to like the Romans much and even the Son of God sent a heavy look their way.</p><p>Crawley lowered her eyes demurely, tugging the <em>abaya </em>even more over her nose. She should scarper while she had the chance. Only there was no divine punishment. No burst of holy fire or even a grumble from the heavens. The only grumble was from the scarred man who had returned with two bowls of wine.</p><p>“Thanks,” the scruffy man said and Crawley, after a short debate, made a sound that could be <em>interpreted </em>as a thanks but, if cornered, could easily say it was a ‘sod off’. Best not to annoy either party when in this situation.</p><p>“If ye listen closely and heed my words, surely ye will enter the Kingdom of Heaven and sit at the Feet of my Father,” the Son of God continued. Crawley snorted without meaning to. Good luck even getting an audience with THEM. Good luck even seeing THEIR face.</p><p>“You’re not obligated to drink it,” said the scruffy man. “It’s a good wine. Dry and full bodied and only a little sweet. But if you want water, say the word.”</p><p>Crawley was a little startled by the consideration. Startled enough to actually, well, consider whether she wanted to drink it or not. Water or wine, save for the filth she’d choked on when caught in the Flood, she’d never really—imbibed anything before.</p><p>It definitely <em>seemed</em> like something a demon should be wary of doing. Earth was THEIR creation and sullying it by taking part seemed like a good way to spend the next eternity or so sucking sulphur. On the other hand, if THEY were going to let Crawley sit in the presence of THEIR son, then THEY probably wouldn’t notice a clandestine sip of wine.</p><p>“This is fine,” Crawley said, lifting the bowl. The scruffy man lifted his as well.</p><p>“<em>L’chaim</em>,<em>”</em> he said bumping his bowl against Crawley’s.</p><p> “<em>L’chaim</em>,” Crawley echoed. To life. And that sounded like a good idea right now. She took a sip of the wine. It was strangely sour, strangely sweet, she didn’t know whether she liked it or not. Then she swallowed and the wine slid down her throat, sending warmth trickling through her. It was not unlike lying in a stripe of sun on a shrine floor on a hot day, soaking in the warmth.</p><p>“Listen to him,” the scruffy man muttered. Crawley opened her eyes, not realizing she’d closed them. The world came back and she found  herself staring at the Son of God again who made a broad gesture and a bedraggled dove burst from his sleeve to wing into the air. The crowd gasped.</p><p>“I am the Almighty’s Holiness manifested into material form!” cried the Son of God. “And I tell, thee, O children, that this is a message from on high! So as the wealthy man is doubly blessed by the will of the Lord of Hosts, so ye shall be if ye follow my wisdom that I will share with thee.  Go to the Font of the Vine Inn by the shores of Galilee, a fortnight hence, and, for the low price of five denarii a head, ye shall learn how to pave thy way to Heaven! Remember, the Lord of Hosts helps those that help themselves!”</p><p>Five denarii a head wasn’t a bad price for salvation, Crawley had to admit. She wasn’t <em>entirely </em>sure the value of money, but people in the crowd seemed happy enough to press their silver into the hands of what he could only presume to be the Son of God’s followers who began to mill among them</p><p>“You’re wrong.” The scruffy man’s voice rang over the general approval of the crowd, stilling them. Crawley flinched and gaped, remembering at the last moment not to look at him. Seriously, could he <em>not</em> challenge the Son of God while Crawley was sitting seven centimeters from him?</p><p>“What?” said the Son of God with a glare that could make the Heavens tremble.</p><p>“You’re wrong!” the scruffy man said louder, getting to his feet, bowl of wine forgotten. Crawley wanted to tug him down but turned her face away instead. She was nothing. Nobody. Just a woman sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone not worth smiting.</p><p>“Dost thou dare to debate with the Son of God?” said the Son of God, drawing himself up to his full height.</p><p>“The son of God would welcome debate,” said the scruffy man, a flash of white teeth showing through his rough beard. “You say Earthly wealth is the way to Heaven? I say that if we could take treasure with us when we passed from this world, there would be nothing for grave robbers to sell.”</p><p>That… made a lot of sense, too actually and it wasn’t like Crawley had any idea. She wasn’t on soul duty and wanted to stay well out of it. Even if she were, she doubted Hell would let anyone keep their treasures anyway.</p><p>Even the crowd seemed to see the wisdom in this, muttering and chatting to themselves, one even snatching her denarii back from a follower.</p><p>“The Almighty will see a man to his just rewards!” the Son of God snapped.</p><p>“Too right He will,” said the scruffy man in such a way that some of the crowd laughed. Even Crawley grinned. The scruffy man smiled, spreading his arms. “I am just a carpenter and I justly look like it. My hands are just rough, my feet are just always covered in sawdust, my beard is just—”</p><p>“Terrible!” shouted someone in the crowd, which laughed again and the scruffy man with them. Even Crawley to her horror caught herself mid laugh and covered it up with a cough and a drink of wine so as not to catch attention.</p><p>“It could use some work,” the scruffy man said, combing his fingers through it. “But if you want to talk about justice, why not save your denarii for the beggar on the street? The woman crying piteously trying to feed her children? The lepers who gather at the edge of town for a scrap of bread or a bowl of wine?”</p><p>“I know you, Yeshua, I’ve heard of you! You’re a rabble-rouser! A problem maker! They say you speak as if you know everything!” said the Son of God. “If that’s true, then how do we enter the heavenly kingdom? Hm? Answer that if you dare!” The Son was pointing now and Crawley stood, wanting to pull the scruffy man down or at least stand in front of him before the idiot got himself smote. She wasn’t sure what she could do, if anything, against holiness but…</p><p>One of those rough hands rested against her shoulder and when she looked at him instinctively, startled to find that he was looking at her too. She was seen. But he didn’t so much as flinch at the sight of her gaze. Instead his fingers just squeezed her shoulder in a warm way and he went on, addressing the Son of God as if it didn’t matter.</p><p>“Not with denarii,” said the scruffy man. “And instead of worrying about the Eternal, why not think on the here and now? Jehova helps who Jehova pleases. His ways are unknown and—”</p><p><em>Don’t say it, </em>Crawley thought. <em>Don’t you dare.</em></p><p>“—Ineffable.”</p><p>Themdamnit.</p><p>“But we can help those who most need it and make the here a better place to be in, while waiting for the hereafter.”</p><p>The crowd started to come closer then, under the awning, out of the sun. No servers moved to take advantage of it, Crawley noted. They just pressed in closer to hear. Even the scarred man seemed to be listening, his scars a little less threatening.</p><p>“But, how, Master,” said a woman.</p><p>“Explain this,” said a man. “Of what benefit is it?”</p><p>“You will pay for this!” screeched the Son of God. “After I tell my heavenly father he will--!”</p><p>“Why don’t you come in, Octavius?” interrupted the scruffy man in a gentle voice, holding out his hand. “Get out of the heat. Have some wine. You are welcome.”</p><p>The Son of God, who was probably not really the Son of God at all paled even more—and then, to Crawley’s surprise, came closer, followers around him. There was still a stubborn look about his face and stance, but he was in the shade, out of the blistering sun. The scruffy man gestured with his own bowl of wine and the not really Son of God took it, grudgingly.</p><p>A child came up out of the crowd and tugged on the scruffy man’s robe. The scruffy man sat on the table, lifting the child onto his knee. People clustered around. Too many people. Too many eyes to see what they really shouldn’t. Scared humans could tear a demon to pieces and she really didn’t want to have to intercede to save herself. Oh, she could reincorporate after, but the explanatory papyrus alone would take half a decade to fill out and just now? She didn’t want to go.</p><p>Instead she ducked her head, half hidden in the <em>abaya,</em> and tried to melt back through the crowd, to get somewhere safe.</p><p>“I hope to see you again, my friend,” said the scruffy man, nearly pinning her to the spot. She said nothing. There was nothing to say aside from: ‘don’t call attention to me, you idiot!’ Fortunately before anyone could look, the scruffy man said: “The benefit you ask? What’s your name, sir?”</p><p>“Josef.”</p><p>“That’s a good name. My father’s name…”</p><p>Crawley wriggled and squirmed her way back into the sunlight , taking a deep relieved breath as she did so. Something more than grit lingered in the air. It wasn’t so much charged with something than the opposite of that. Calmed with something maybe.</p><p>She shook her head and was about to leave when a flash of grubby white caught her eye. Glancing over almost against her will, she saw the angel.  And was stunned. Pinned to place like a needle through a butterfly—Caught just looking at him.</p><p>He hadn’t changed much, even though it had been over two hundred years since they’d last met. Or maybe he had changed a little. He had ditched the angelic robes for more human ones and he looked… happy.  And beautiful too, standing there sunlit, the calm waters of the Galilean sea presenting the perfect backdrop.</p><p>Crawley watched, first astonished, then having to press the <em>abaya </em>against her lips to keep from laughing as the angel dug a bag out from his robes, pulled a stuffed date from it and popped it into his mouth. Just like that.  </p><p>It was true then! An angel that really did eat his weight in stuffed dates. Crawley wanted to tease him about it, wanted to ask if it was a little greedy of him to do so. A little sinful. He wondered if the angel would puff up like an affronted dove, or offer some excuse, or maybe even gasp in horror at the realization. She almost slithered to his side to ask him.</p><p>Only then, the angel said:</p><p>“You tell them, Yeshua!”</p><p>And Crawley felt her own horror grow as the realization sunk in. Not only had she found the Son of God, she’d been rubbing elbows with him! <em>Shit!</em></p><p>She hadn’t meant to get that bloody close!</p><p> Crawley was off running before she knew what hit her, but it wasn’t good enough. It was too open here. She was too exposed. Should she change to a  serpent? Should she go down to Hell? Was that far enough? If the Almighty caught her then--!</p><p><em>Then--</em>!!</p><p>Then… what?</p><p>Crawley tripped to a stop on a particularly dry side street. Here there was just enough gap in the buildings to keep away the shadow and let a sliver of sunlight through. Crawley glared up at the blue sky and then, daringly, the sun, which made her eyes smart and water and seared its way through her.</p><p>Then what? She dared to think.</p><p><em>Now </em>what? What will THEY do about it? She had rubbed elbows with THEIR son. She’d drank with him and THEIR son called her a friend and THEY had nothing to say about it?</p><p>“Come on,” she said, spreading her arms. “I’m right here! Come and get me!”</p><p>But there was nothing. The world moved on as always it had. Not even a bird flew overhead. Not even a cloud in the sky. If THEY had heard, THEY didn’t care. And maybe THEY weren’t even listening.</p><p>Crawley scowled.</p><p>What was even the point of THEM then? What was the point of this whole song and dance if THEY weren’t going to do a bloody thing to protect what was THEIRS?</p><p>It wouldn’t be the first time, Crawley thought bitterly.</p><p>She spat on the ground, hoping THEY saw that too and turned on her heel.</p><p>It was easy to let the anger simmer through her, to want to tear down what THEY had built, to do something truly terrible just to catch THEIR eye. But it was hard to hold on to any evil thought while the taste of wine lingered in her mouth.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Parable of Stone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crawley has been around the world, yet still cannot get the mystery of Yeshua out of her head. So into the desert she goes to find him and tempt the truth out of him. Though it may be she won't like what she finds. After all, the rocky desert of Judea can be as hard and merciless as the Almighty Themselves.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>               Crawley stood balanced on the precipice of a rocky outcropping and glared at the merciless blue sky. She normally didn’t hate herself, there was plenty of that coming from all directions without internalizing it, but at the moment she was getting pretty bloody aggravated. It had been a year since she’d found the Son of God on accident. Since then she’d been all over the world. She’d cruised on the Nile, been to a Bacchinal in Corinth, crept into the Forbidden City and gotten royally smashed with the Emperor. She’d even gone to an Olmecan shrine in the jungles of somewhere and had been presented a bowl of sweet smelling liquor that had let her see the universe in its entirety, past and present and twisted future and all things great and small. Which just ticked her right off seeing how much THEMSELVES had let the place go. Also didn’t help that she’d woken up in the middle of the jungle as a serpent, wings out and feeling like someone was continually smiting her skull with a giant golden hammer.</p><p>               Only during all those times, except for maybe when she was, as the Olmecan priest had described, whacked out of her ever loving gourd, the question remained. Who was the Son of God anyway? Why was he here? What was God planning? The more she thought about it, the less bloody sense it made. Yeshua was a nobody from nowhere. Nazareth was a two donkey town <em>if </em>that. He didn’t even speak in received pronunciation like that Octavius guy had, but had been a bit countryside as far as Crawley had understood it. Why wasn’t he a high priest or rabbi or king? Hell with that! Why wasn’t he some conquering warlord there to slaughter humanity for the bad they’d done? The Rain Bow had promised no more Flood maybe, but that had never stopped the All Mighty Pain in the Arse from being inventive.</p><p>               The questions hadn’t given her a moment’s peace and so now, here she was, right in the middle of a sodding great desert, looking for the Son of God. Again. The hunt had been harder this time, but she’d heard from a man who’d heard from a man who’d heard from his second cousin who’d been there that Yeshua had met John the terrifying and had hied off into the desert. The man said that he’d heard that people were half afraid John had eaten him and Crawley couldn’t really discount the possibility.</p><p>               One thing Crawley was <em>not</em> doing was combing the entire Judean Desert for a human that may well be in another human’s gut, but fortunately she was a clever demon and had all sorts of ways of finding information. Clever and curious and very<em> very </em>stupid. She took a deep breath and stared down small trail that zigzagged down the outcropping, ending in a narrow gully that had long since dried up. The gully was in complete shadow, despite the sun’s position, but even from here she could see the dim white shapes of bones. Piles of bones. Heaps of bones.</p><p>              She should just say sod it all and go find somewhere to get completely blotto. She’d heard great things about Sumerian wines.  Only the questions would remain, wouldn’t they? Cursing herself and THEMSELVES and everything in between, Crawley started her way down the slope. She kept her head high and her stride sure, making certain to disturb bits of rubble and pebbles. It was a bad idea to visit this bastard to begin with but startling it made a bad idea exponentially worse.</p><p>              But she had weapons on her side to prevent her guts from being torn out and stuffed into her mouth. Namely, a stone tablet forged with Lord Beelzebub’s sigil that stated zhe demanded information for zher current scourge, Crawley and that, due to the urgent nature of the mission, as few limbs as possible were to be broken off and used as toothpicks. Crawley had debated saying no limbs at all, but even she couldn’t stretch Lord Beelzebub’s magnanimity that far. The other weapon was sloshing around in a gourd strapped her waist but she sincerely hoped she didn’t have to use it.</p><p>              Down, then, into the literal valley of death and, she fervently hoped, not hers. Oh sure she could recorporate but she’d rather not suffer the pain of being ripped in half. Before she’d so much as set a toe in the darkness she straightened her shoulders and called:</p><p>              “Azazel, you great filthy bastard! Lord Beelzebub demands an audience!”</p><p>              At first there was nothing. Then the darkness <em>moved</em>. Crawley was well trained to stay stock still even in front of the most intimidating demons, unless it was a better idea to run like hell. And here she was tempted. There was a shuffle, scrape, shuffle, <em>scraape</em> and Azazel loomed out of the darkness. It was <em>huge</em>. It had to be five or six cubits high, not counting the curling horns that jutted from its skull. It had massive arms, massive hands in broken brutal nails and cloven hooves that struck sparks when it moved. Fortunately its goatish face was smeared with gore which meant it had probably recently eaten and likely wouldn’t feel hungry right away.</p><p>              “Yeh ain’t Lord Beelzebub,” said Azazel, its voice like boulders rolling down hill. “Yer Crawley. I’ve seen yer skint face before.”</p><p>              “I’m on a mission for Lord Beelzebub.” Was calling him a dribbling moron too far? One of those horizontal pupils filled with burning fire and promised torment rolled to fix on him and Crawley decided it was: “O Foul One,” she finished with a bow, spreading her hands.</p><p>              Azazel lurched up out of the gully toward her, a bit of the cliff face it was using for support breaking off in its hand and cracking some skulls underneath.</p><p>              “I bring a missive from the Great Lord zherself.” She presented the tablet, somehow keeping her hand from shaking. Azazel took it and broke it in two between its sharp teeth, crunching the rock and grinning.</p><p>              “Kent read. Don’t care to.”  </p><p>              “A gift, then. Did I mention a gift?” Crawley untied the gourd and only just got her hand away before Azazel crunched it between in its massive thorny palm, the sweet mind bending liquor squeezing through its fingers and falling uselessly to the ground.</p><p>              It was done, Crawley realized. Time to go. Too late the massive hand slammed into the ground next to her, making an imprint and that gore covered face was a centimeter from hers. Wet pebbles dribbled from its mouth to bounce across her feet.</p><p>              “Give me one reason I shouldn’t eat yeh right here and right now, <em>Crawl</em>-ey.”</p><p>              She was dead. So very dead. Or was she? The thing about gore was that it attracted flies and if she listened carefully she could hear them buzzing in the gully. She was sure with those huge ears of its, Azazel could hear it to.</p><p>              “Up to you if you want Lord Beelzebub to use your severed head as a stepstool.” She tilted her head. “Or don’t you hear zher listening?”</p><p>              Azazel’s ear twitched and its head turned just a little. Crawley tried very hard to let the relief show on her face. She remained stone. Impassive. Finally Azazel grunted and sat back with enough force so that a shower of stones bounced down around them. One of them glanced off Crawley’s temple, sending stars behind her eyes, but she pretended not to notice it.</p><p>              “What does zhe want then? Kent be much if zhe’s sendin’ out shit tier demons like yeh.”</p><p>             This was not the time to be cocky, Crawley reminded herself.  She didn’t want to have to prove it for one thing and she wouldn’t be able to for another.</p><p>              “She wants me to find the Son of God.”</p><p>              Azazel stared at her a full mark it felt like before throwing back its head and laughing. The laugh was like a roar. More stones bounced down and Crawley just managed to side step a great boulder before it flattened her to the ground.</p><p>              “Yer buzzard food is what yeh are. That old fly shite is sendin’ yeh to be chewed up and spit out. These prophets? These Sons a God? Madder than dung beetles. Weren’t too long ago I saw some hairy prophet comin’ down from the hills and endin’ up face teh face with a fire scorpion. What does he do? Grabs the thing in one hairy mitt and bites its head clean off that’s what he does. Right off.” Azazel rubbed its brawny arms. “Enough to give the dark lord himself the collywobbles and no mistake.”</p><p>              Crawley shuddered. She wasn’t surprised. Humans could be more terrifying than demons sometimes. Sometimes she wondered if they should be more afraid of <em>them</em> than the other way around. Only not Yeshua… Though she probably should be more terrified of him than she was. Probably would be after she found out what he was doing out in the bloody desert.</p><p>              “What Lord Beelzebub wants, Lord Beelzebub gets,” Crawley said with a shrug. She’d get a hell of a case of collywobbelry if she was going after that prophet. But Yeshua was different, even if by all accounts he shouldn’t be. The Son of God should not be so… so <em>normal</em>.</p><p>              …Could it be that Aziraphale had gotten it wrong?</p><p>              …Nah the angel knew what he was doing. He’d known about the Rain Bow and had been right about that. Also THEY wouldn’t just make the angel the guardian of Eden if he made mistakes. Stood to reason.</p><p>              “So what’s this Son of God look like then?” said Azazel.</p><p>              “A little shorter than me, scruffy looking… uh…” She faltered a bit. “A beard.”</p><p>              Azazel gave her another long look and Crawley tried not to feel like an idiot, or at least not let it show on her face.</p><p>              “That’d be every prophet that come through here for the last eighty years.” Azazel pulled his thin wiry beard. “But I did see a prophet type ‘bout seven leagues West’a here by some limestone caves. Been out there, twenty, thirty days? Could be yer guy.”</p><p>              Could be wasn’t great but better than a stick in the eye, she supposed. She found herself caught between expressing respectful gratitude to a demon who could smash her to a pulp and a dismissive grunt as she was ostensibly on a mission from a higher power. Crawley settled for a noise like.</p><p>              “Ngh,” to say that she’d heard and started down the rocky terrace.</p><p>              “Oh,” said Azazel in a tone she didn’t like. “Do one thing fer me before yeh go.”</p><p>              “What?” Crawley said as annoyed as she dared, turning to face it. Its mouth split open into a thousand glinting teeth.</p><p>              “<em>Crawl</em>.”</p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt; </p><p>               Stupid sodding goat faced fuck. Crawley limped through rocky grit at the base of a slope, hate crawling through her veins. No, not crawling, seeping, threading. She had pretended not to hear the request, seemed like the safest bed. It was good to be reasonably polite something that could rip your head off, but showing too much obeisance and you ended up their grunt at best, their door mat at close to worst and at the very worst—didn’t even bear thinking about. She should be grateful that it hadn’t snapped her in half like a twig and instead picked her up and threw her hard enough so that she bounced her off the wall of the outcropping opposite.</p><p>               Sod being grateful, Crawley thought. Sod being anything but pissed off. At it, at THEM, at herself for this burning need to know what in the bloody hell was going on. Was this even worth it? Traipsing out here on Azazel’s perch? Risking corporation and limb and more than that if word ever got back to Lord Beelzebub what she was up to? Good thing the tablet had shattered so there as no physical evidence and Crawley had plausible deniability in that case, but it wouldn’t stop the fly lord from torturing the hell out of her anyway just on a safe bet, or because zhe was bored.</p><p>               What if, in the end, this was all pointless?  </p><p>               The thought made her stop. It almost made her turn round. Was it really worth all this grief to be chasing the Son of God down? Wouldn’t it be easier to just not think about it and go back to civilization? There had been a luxury caravan starting in Jericho that she’d had an eye on. All the wine you could drink as well as something called a hookah. Crawley had no idea what one was but it was probably steeped in sin. She could go back and see what that was all about. Forget this desert and its pain.</p><p>               …And let God get away with it? Nah. Face set she hobbled forward once more, determination in her stride. Big Head was planning something, that she knew. Maybe Yeshua didn’t seem like anything now, but maybe he was like a seven-year locust or a cicada. You didn’t see anything until those little wee bastards crawled out of the ground and started wreaking havoc or… being very loud. She would find out what THEY were up to and, if she couldn’t put a stop to it, she’d at least put a stick between the spokes to make it go wobbly. Yeah… That’s what she’d do.</p><p>               Only she had to find the bloody man first.</p><p>               She was close, she knew it. An earlier agonizing climb to the top of a bluff had shown her a scattering of small caves near here. More importantly there had been a dark smudge on the otherwise brown and gray and tan of the ground. Evidence of a fire maybe. Evidence of someone hanging about. She’d find him first, she figured. But make it so he didn’t see her. Then she’d make herself beautiful. Luminous. She still had a spark of that after all, as much as she loathed using it. After all, men usually went a little soft round the knees for an—she gagged a little—<em>angelically</em> beautiful woman. From there she didn’t know. Maybe she could convince him that whatever he thought he ought to be doing was really a bad idea.</p><p>               Yeah. That sounded good.</p><p>               She wasn’t far now. Just through this narrow breezeway here and she ought to pop out practically on top of it.</p><p>               Crawley sucked in a breath to squeeze through the narrow opening, wincing a little as the rock scraped a bruised she heretofore had been ignoring and grinned to herself as she saw the campsite. It was just there in a little depression in the ground. Only it wasn’t much of a campsite, she thought, grin fading a little. There were no…things around. No evidence of a sleeping pallet or supplies. Bugger. Had he moved on already? There was a faint heat coming from the charred remains of the fire though and a bit of poking she found that some embers were still smoldering. Maybe he’d only just left? Or was coming back?</p><p>               “Hello, friend.”</p><p>               She startled at the sudden voice, and her body went through a brief confused flailing of limbs as it tried to get up and jump back at the same time, ending up with her flat on her arse on the ground. She stared up at the man, recognizing him instantly, and put a hand over her racing heart.</p><p>               “<em>Yeshua!</em> You scared the hell out of me!”</p><p>               The man laughed. Crawley remembered it being warm and rich. Now it was cracked and frayed round the edges. In fact everything about him seemed cracked and frayed round the edges. His hair and beard had gotten longer and scruffier, there were dark smudges under his eyes and he looked…hollowed out. Crawley had seen beggars on the street that looked better fed.</p><p>               “If only,” Yeshua said, then offered a hand, broad and rough. “Come,” he said.</p><p>              Crawley squinted at that hand. Wasn’t sure she wanted to take it or not. It was one thing for the Son of God to be touching her but the opposite of that? Seemed like a bad idea.</p><p>              “Come,” he said again, gently. “It’s alright. Nothing will hurt you.”</p><p>              “Hard to take that from a rag and bone man,” Crawley said. She left that hand where it was and got up herself, trying not to wince. Azazel must have put a curse in her somehow to make the bruises last this long. Bastard.</p><p>              “Fair enough,” said Yeshua. “Come sit with me at least. You look like you could use a rest.”</p><p>              Well, she could use one. As well as use a think since the luminously beautiful woman plan was all but knackered. So she limped along beside him, noticing how slow he was and the staff that he gripped. She saved that question for later as Yeshua lead her to a little incline, padded by dirt and sand. Somehow she managed to sit without jarring anything, grateful for the soft earth.</p><p>              “Only soft spot for leagues,” Yeshua said, sitting beside her with a grunt. “It was a miracle finding it.”</p><p>              “Isn’t miracles what you do?” Crawley said.</p><p>              Yeshua raised one shoulder in a shrug. Silence then as they stared at the bluff rising against the blue sky. It was dotted here and there with scrub brush and Crawley found her eyes were hungry for the sight of green. For the sight of any color really other than brown and tan and gray and merciless endless blue.</p><p>              “You seem as if you got in some trouble,” said Yeshua.</p><p>              “They got in trouble with <em>me</em>,” Crawley said, the instinctive lie springing to her lips, then inwardly cursing herself. This was not the place for a big demon in hell act.   Yeshua chuckled and she relaxed a little, trying to put a softer tone in her voice.</p><p>              “Looks like you got in trouble too. What are you doing all the way out here?” And then with a rush of real sympathy. “Get kicked out of town, did you?” Was it that Octavius guy? Someone else?</p><p>               “No. I’m following the path of Moses.”</p><p>              “Oh…” Crawley knew <em>of</em> Moses anyway. She’d bailed during the plague of flies because there had <em>not</em> been warning and then wondered what in the bloody hell THEY were playing at when even Lord Beelzebub had no idea what was going on. Crawley had stayed well out of Egypt after that because better to be safe than sorry. Still, he’d happened across the angel a quarter of a century or so after and he’d said there had been even <em>more </em>plagues, including death of the first born. Which was probably well justified, as he put it, considering what the Egyptians had started.</p><p>              Crawley herself wasn’t sure about that since revenge was a sticky business to begin with. Especially since apparently they’d pissed off God again by a little golden calf worship and THEY’d got their revenge for that. Forty years in the desert that got so bad that a rain of miraculous and heavenly mandated bread was the only thing worth tasting for <em>decades</em>, or so the angel had said. Not that he would <em>know </em>of course. After all, he’d only had a little nibble to make sure it was on the up and up, which had seemed sensible to Crawley.</p><p>              Only wait—</p><p>              Did that mean?</p><p>              “You’re going to be out here for forty <em>years</em>?” That seemed a bit long, even for the Son of God.</p><p>              “Heaven forbid,” Yeshua said good naturedly. “Try days instead.”</p><p>              “<em>Why</em>?”</p><p>              “I was called….” His glance upward left no doubt as to who was doing the calling. Crawley glared up into the sky as well. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense. Why go to all that trouble of bringing about a holy one, scaring the piss out of most of Hell in the process, and then do absolutely nothing with him? To just send him out into the bloody desert.</p><p>              “Are you preparing for something then? Training up?”</p><p>              “I don’t know.”</p><p>              “You’re the bloody Son of God! You have to have <em>some </em>idea.”</p><p>              Yeshua only shook his head. Crawley stared at him. There was a pinched look about his face as if he was concerned about this too. As if he really had no idea. Crawley wondered if he really <em>was </em>the Son of God. He probably was, she thought. It would be just like THEM to screw with someone’s head, THEIR own son or not.</p><p>              After all… In a way…</p><p>              Weren’t they all God’s children?</p><p>              Maybe so, but it didn’t mean that Crawley had to like it.</p><p>              "The Lord will tell me,” Yeshua said. “In His own quiet way in His own quiet time.”              </p><p><em>              I’d tell THEM to piss right off</em>, Crawley thought. Almost said.  But there was something so tight and concerned in Yeshua’s face, she didn’t have the heart. Not that she had a heart. She just didn’t want to start an argument with someone she was trying to…to tempt?  </p><p>              “You can tell me if you were just running from Hairy John,” said Crawley just to lighten the mood. “I’ve heard things.”</p><p>              Yeshua laughed again and there was some warm richness back in the sound as it echoed around the canyon. Crawley felt a spark of cheer from it herself and then rigorously tried to stomp it out before it could grow into fondness.</p><p>              “I won’t say that he wasn’t tempted to eat me,” said Yeshua. “But fortunately decided to baptize me instead.”</p><p>              And then, in a voice so soft it broke the heart that Crawely didn’t have.</p><p>              “I thought I’d feel different.”</p><p>              That was it. Absolutely it. Sod whatever it was that Yeshua was <em>meant </em>to do. Here he was, out in the middle of the bloody desert <em>starving </em>himself and THEMSELVES couldn’t even peek down and tell THEIR own son what it was all about? What he was all about? Couldn’t even make him feel the least bit divine?</p><p>              Well Crawley was going to put a stop to it here and now. If THEY weren’t going to say anything, she sure as hell would.</p><p>              “Listen, forget about all this. Go home. Get some rest. If THEY’RE not going to play fair than neither should you.”</p><p>              “The Lord isn’t obligated to play fair, my friend.” Yeshua’s voice was calm. “Fair is fair but it’s not always right.”</p><p>              “Oh right, yeah, of course. I forgot. THEM sending you out here to die? The rightest thing there is.”</p><p>              “I was called out into the desert to watch and wait and listen,” Yeshua said. “I <em>choose</em> to fast, not made to. I could have ignored the call and gone back to my father’s workshop. I could have sat near my mother and watched her spin. I could have done any number of things. But I didn’t.”</p><p>              “Well you’re a great idiot too then,” Crawley muttered, shrugging his hand off. She should let this rest. Couldn’t let it rest. That Yeshua was doing this on purpose made even less sense. Or no, it made too much sense. He was hoping for a reward at the end of all this. He wouldn’t get it. Or if he did get it he wouldn’t like it.</p><p>              But maybe… She rose as the sudden thought occurred to her. Maybe he was going a bit barmy because he was hungry. Hunger did strange things to humans. Casting about, she saw some rocks nearby shaped a bit like loaves of bread. She fetched one, it wasn’t heavy and wasn’t difficult to transform it. Soon it grew warm and light in her hands, a brilliant brown crust coming over it before it split in the middle, exposing the white inside and letting off a warm heady scent. Even from here she could hear his stomach grumble.</p><p>              “I don’t know what you’re expecting, but you’re not going to get anything from this. Eat something instead, you’ll feel better when you do.”</p><p>              “No.” Bastard didn’t even look hungry. His eyes didn’t even touch the bread but stared calmly into Crawley’s face.</p><p>              “<em>Why</em>? What is starving yourself even going to do?” Why was he being so bloody stubborn about <em>nothing</em>?</p><p>              “Fasting allows us to let the physical go. It lets us ignore the needs and demands of this world and allows us to focus on another.”</p><p>              “You’re going to <em>be </em>in another world if you keep this up,” Crawley growled. “Do you not want to live or what?”</p><p>               Yeshua gave him a faint, warm smile.</p><p>               “Man cannot live on bread alone, my friend. But also by the words of the Holy Spirit.” He was looking up in the sky again. Crawley took one last desperate stab at it.</p><p>               “And if THEY don’t answer?”</p><p>               “He will.”</p><p>               Crawley knew that tone. Unshakable Faith was what it was. The same tone the angel got sometimes, usually when he was defending something horrific. What the hell was he even worried about? This moron would die here waiting and all that the Son of God would be worth in the end was a pile of forgotten bones.</p><p>               “Fine.” Crawley dropped the bread where she stood and turned away. “Suffer and die on your own time. I’ve got better things to do.”</p><p>               He didn’t reply and she didn’t expect it. What could he say anyway? Nothing that she’d want to hear. The conversation was done with and she’d answered her question. Or didn’t really, but had rendered it null and void. Now she could go back to living it up until the next mission came along—and that’s just what she was going to do.</p><p> </p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt; </p><p>              Only… THEY weren’t stupid, were THEY? The realization came to Crawley a few days later as she lay on her back on the cave floor, head pillowed by her arms. THEY were a cold bastard, but were also <em>clever</em>. Of course THEY had to figure that a demon would try to snoop in on THEIR plans. Maybe even ruin them! So naturally THEY wouldn’t tell Yeshua anything until he was desperate enough to agree to anything just to get out of the desert.</p><p>              The poor sod probably needed company too, and even if Crawley couldn’t throw a stick between the spokes, she could at least get a clue what might happen—Because it <em>had </em>to be something. It just <em>had </em>to. And oh, she’d find out. She was willing to bet THEY hadn’t planned on her tenacity, her determination, the fact that she kept getting turned around among the rocks and didn’t want to take a shortcut through Hell and risk Beelzebub’s attention.</p><p>              Anyway, going back out there and poking her nose into things was better than lying about and feeling increasingly frustrated with her inability to leave. This time would be different though. She’d figured out her mistake. Visiting him in the daytime? Of course he was going to think he was clearheaded and making sense. But at night? When the mysteries of the universe were that much closer to the ground? Anyone could be convinced of anything.</p><p>              Right now it was still bright as tits out there right now, so may as well get a few marks of snoozing in while she wasn’t doing anything.  She wriggled a bit to get back in the strip of sunlight, wriggling her toes happily at the warmth. Course the limestone wasn’t doing her any good. She even thought of turning back into a serpent because Yeshua was right. It was hard as bullocks out here and no mistake. But after a little bit of clandestine power drawn up, the ground softened just enough to not be distracting.</p><p>              She had just shut her eyes when she felt it. That little web of malevolence that drifted into the cave opening like an evil spiderweb. More than that she could smell it too. The gore. The carrion. Heard the buzzing of flies. Azazel. It was close.</p><p>              “Come out, come out, Crawley,” Azazel rasped in a sing-song tone. “I know yer in there.”</p><p>              Should she risk it? Should she pretend she wasn’t in? Should she turn serpent and slither like hell to the darkest narrowest part of the cave she could get to?</p><p>              “I know every centimeter of this desert.” Azazel’s tone dropped menacingly. “And yeh won’t like it if I have teh come find yeh.”</p><p>              Right. Coming out it was. But slow and casual like she wasn’t much bothered and even slightly annoyed. A bit hard to do that as she’d had to lie down to even get into the cave. Still she managed, she hoped, to slip out easily enough and gave it a cool raised eyebrow look.</p><p>              The goat faced demon was standing on the shadowed floor of the ravine, tail swishing at the flies that buzzed up around it. It was alone,  but given that grin Crawley wasn’t going to count her luck as it was <em>grinning</em>. A slant of sunlight came through and lit one eye a brilliant bloody red.</p><p>              “Yeah?” Crawley said in a way that she hoped struck just the right tone between respectful and irreverent.</p><p>              “Yeh really bothered the burro this time. I can’t believe yeh did it, but yeh did.  Somethin’ big is comin’.”</p><p>              “And what’s that supposed to mean.” She sniffed. Yawned. Was as blasé as she could manage. “What’s coming?”</p><p>               Its serrated grin widened. Crawley wondered if it was too late to change her name and go into hiding or if she should cast herself in the deepest pit of lava she could find and have done with it.</p><p>              “Oh, yeh’ll see. Could tell yeh, but I teh see it with my own eyes. Want teh hear yer lovely <em>screams</em>.”</p><p>              Yep. She was fucked. So fucked.</p><p>              …Or was she? Hell didn’t usually wait to fuck someone. They usually did it all at once and they didn’t generally give warnings. Maybe Azazel didn’t find out anything at all. Maybe it just wanted to trick Crawley into making a mistake. Maybe it wanted her to tell it what she knew about Yeshua or maybe promising service for protection. She just had to keep her cool. Act like she didn’t give a damn. No use worrying about the shite hitting the ground until she actually saw it leave.</p><p>              “Yeah, well until then, I’ve got a Son of God to tempt. See you around.”</p><p>              Azazel scowled, a sight even more terrifying than its grin. Crawley pretended ice wasn’t creaking down her spine and her knees weren’t wobbling under her dress. Instead she started to walk in any old direction. She knew she was close enough to the campsite to find it again if she needed and it was better to get out of there while the getting was good.</p><p>              “Yeh sure yeh want teh leave just like that?” Azazel scraped toward her, sparks scattering at its feet. Now would be a good time to run. She’d be thrown into a cliffside again or worse. She could already see the bloodlust gleaming in its eyes.</p><p>              Except now Crawley had something she hadn’t before. A measure of safety if she was clever enough to use it. And, oh, she was.</p><p>              “Funny thing is, he doesn’t even know I’m not human,” Crawley said, telling herself not to so much twitch even as Azazel came closer.</p><p>              “Yeh? So?”</p><p>              “So that means I’m not likely to get smited. But you—” She sucked in air through her teeth and gave it a look of pity. “Harder to hide. Even if you did change your form the eyes would be a dead give away. No hiding those. It would be a real tragedy if he somehow found out where you were staying.”</p><p>              The fury in Azazel’s face blanched the rocks white and the earth trembled under her feet, pebbles clattering against stone. She’d made an enemy, she knew, but it wasn’t as if Azazel was ever going to be a friend. She would just have to make sure to follow Yeshua out of the desert and then never come back here again. No problem.</p><p>              “After they’re finished with yeh, it’ll be <em>my </em>turn,” Azazel snarled. “And yeh’ll wish they’d never stopped.”</p><p>              Crawley decided that she was very much not going to think about that right now and kept walking. She turned her back on the growling demon as she knew she had to and pretended she didn’t care. That she wasn’t worried. And in a way she wasn’t. She’d come this far after all. If she hadn’t been struck down for tempting the literal Son of God, it wasn’t likely to happen in the future and as for Hell—Well—Crawley just had to hope she was a faster talker than Azazel. Shouldn’t be hard.</p><p>              Confident though she was, she couldn’t fully relax until she was back at the campsite. It was barren as usual, but there was at least a straw pallet now and the fire was still warm. A quick check around the area and Yeshua was nowhere to be found. Crawley was about to check the caves when a shrill whistle echoed from somewhere above. She glanced up, shielding her eyes from the glare with her hand and saw a scruffy figure waving at her from the top of a precipice.  </p><p>              By the time she got to the top of the precipice herself, she <em>knew </em>he was the Son of God. Had to be. By the time she’d managed to get to the top the sun was considerably lower in the sky and <em>she </em>didn’t even need to eat, let alone been starving herself in the desert. He looked even more haggard than last time she’d seen him, almost wilting as he sat there propped against a stone.</p><p>              “This another escape from the physical kind of thing?” Crawley asked, taking a seat beside him and dangling her legs over the edge. Yeshua grinned.</p><p>              “Something like that. Mostly it’s a contemplation on the lesson of hubris.” Yeshua rolled his head to look at him. “Have you heard of that?”</p><p>               She had, of course. Part of her business to know, wasn’t it?</p><p>               “Pride goeth before the fall,” she said, then really wished she hadn’t. “Thinking of giving up then? Throwing down the trowel? I can get you a bun quick as you like,” she added quickly, trying to get the taste out of her mouth. Yeshua breathed a laugh.</p><p>               “Nice try.” He leaned his head back, hands resting one over the other against his stomach. “ Not that I would mind an <em>ashishot</em> or, ohh, one of those small raisin cakes. But I wouldn’t accept one” He a faint smile, then he sighed and his gaze fixed somewhere out over the rocky hills.  “A Holy Man wouldn’t want those things, would remain pure in spirit, don’t you think?”</p><p>               “Not a good question to ask me.” Bit of a hazard knowing holy men in her experience. Even the holy men of temples that worshipped her, or what they thought she was, were dangerous. Never knew when they’d decided you took up too much of their time or energy or resources or wanted to kill you to take the power for themselves. Dangerous business altogether, religion.</p><p>               “I just don’t understand,” Yeshua went on. “I’m just a poor schmuck from Nazareth. A <em>carpenter</em>. On most days I spread sawdust in my wake.”  He lifted his hands out as if telling the sky, the land, the one who would never listen. “It should be a Priest, a King, a rabbi. Someone from a great house at least.”</p><p>               “Right? That’s what <em>I’m </em>saying. As far as I can tell the world is changed because of kings and armies and money and… really poor decision making skills. Not because of a nobody from nowhere. No offense.” A pause as she considered this. “Some offense.”</p><p>               Yeshua chuckled at that and thumped his fist lightly against her arm.</p><p>               “And so far you haven’t heard <em>anything</em> from on high?” Crawley asked. “Not even a hint?”</p><p>               “Nothing more than the occasional bizarre dream.” He bumped Crawley with the back of his hand. “Last night, for instance, I dreamed an image of my mother had been found burnt into a falafel. What am I even supposed to <em>make</em> of that.”</p><p>               “No idea, but I’d avoid falafels from now on.”</p><p>               “I would cross the Mediterranean on <em>foot </em>for a falafel,” Yeshua muttered.</p><p>               Silence then. A soft wind like a sigh came up from the ground below, bringing with it the faint scent of flowers. Crawley tilted her head toward the scent, wondering if there was a small hidden spring nearby. Yeshua’s small smile faded and he seemed to sink then, worry creasing his face.  Crawley could demoralize him, but it wasn’t Yeshua’s fault he was the Son of God. He hadn’t asked for it, maybe didn’t even want it, but here he was anyway, trying to do the right thing.</p><p>               “I mean if you wanted to know for sure you could chuck yourself off the cliff and see if an angel came to catch you,” Crawley said, not entirely seriously. “Mind you they’d have to be quick on the draw or you’d end up a greasy smear on the ground anyway.” In retrospect it had sounded funnier in her head, but in for the sesterce… “Still, might not be a bad thing. This place could do with a bit of color.”</p><p>               “Yes, thanks for that,” Yeshua said sounding amused once more. “But as the scripture says: Ye shall not put the Lord your God to the test.” A pause and then he held out his hand. “Five denarii to find out more.”</p><p>               That surprised a laugh from Crawley. He was so clever, quick on his feet, easy to talk to. They could just as easily be sitting at a table and sharing wine instead of a windswept pinnacle on a barren strip of land.  She had to believe he was the Son of God because what a waste of his time if he wasn’t. What a waste of him.</p><p>               And yet there was nothing extraordinary about him. Nothing at all. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that floated unseen in the air. Just him. His presence. A human just like any other human. One of the herd. And he should be <em>with </em>the herd, Crawley thought, remembering when she first met him. Not up here on some daft outcropping bleeding hope and vitality.</p><p>               “THEY are not going to answer you,” said Crawley. It was pointless, she knew, but at least there was nothing to lose. “THEY never have and THEY never will. You can’t wait around your whole life for someone to tell you who you are. You have decide for yourself; to twist life to your own making—Or you’ll always be someone else’s fool.”</p><p>               Yeshua said nothing. She almost wished she would. That he would refute it. That he would find something to say, or hell, even that THEY would actually say something to him. Something that would change everything. That would light a spark in his eyes. Which was completely mad because it wouldn’t be any good for <em>her</em>, but there had to be some hope in this world.</p><p>               “Help me down the mountain, my friend,” Yeshua said. “My legs are like water.”</p><p>               Crawley helped him up, concerned with how light he felt. When they moved down the escarpment, Yeshua hobbled like an old man.</p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt; </p><p>               Crawley sat in front of the meager fire, legs tucked underneath her, the universe unfurled over her head in its angry glory. Not that she cared to look up. Yeshua lay near the fire on his straw pallet, hands tucked behind his head. He was awake. She could see that well enough in the dark, but quiet. Contemplative. It had been three days since she’d helped Yeshua down the cliff. It had been three days of silence, mostly—and what words were spoken were usually him pointing out a tiny flower or some animal that had crossed their path. He never seemed to be annoyed by Crawley’s continual presence, or had even asked her why. It wasn’t companionable silence either. He was there, but withdrawn, isolated in himself.</p><p>               The silence was beginning to seep into her too. It was the kind of deep quiet of the rock around them. Nothing to distract you here, no delicious drinks or crowds of humans to watch. It was just stone and sometimes wind.  In that deep stillness, thoughts and memories came floating to the surface. Sometimes it was places she’d been, people she’d spoken to—But at night, it was mostly Hell.</p><p>               She remembered the early days, not that days and nights existed and time itself was new and still a bit dodgy back then— There had been another war, this time in Hell, as everyone jostled for power and position. Crawley had managed to miss out on the first half of it, as most of the time had been spent—She scowled a bit – <em>wallowing </em>in guilt, fear, rage, sorrow, grief, <em>pain. </em>No name, self almost completely torn away, just existing somehow with the others.</p><p>               The traitors, the monsters, the fallen, the damned.</p><p>               Only the mangled form of a former Throne crashing right nearby and nearly on a wing had stirred any sort of awareness. True most of that awareness had been annoyance at not even having a place to mope before it shifted to sod it. Sod all of it. You had a choice to mope in hell or survive in hell and <em>this </em>Fallen had decided to survive it.</p><p>Of course it wasn’t easy. There was still a war on after all. But it hadn’t been difficult to develop an ability to slither out of path of  fists and flails and spines and other assorted nastiness that could really screw up your day.</p><p>               ‘Get back here, you slinky coward!’ the others had howled. Or: ‘stop biting, you wriggly shit!’ Or: ‘You laugh at me one more time, you crawly bastard, and I’ll have your guts for garters!’ But no one could catch <em>this </em>Fallen ….more than once, and it had been a bit of a good time during the war after that. At least until things got sorted and then <em>everyone </em>was miserable. Still, the war had given a name.</p><p>              Oh sure, it had been Wiggly at first, for the span of a heartbeat, and then You’llPayForThatYouSkinnyBastard until the realization struck that it was going to be a pain in the arse to tell anyone, and for one brief instant Slithereen had been an option,  but who could be taken seriously with a name like that?</p><p>              Finally Crawley had come to the fore. Which suited. Had suited.  Only now the suit seemed too small somehow. Too restrictive. And even then it was a name that <em>others</em> had given. It was a name <em>others</em> had defined her by and she carried it with pride. But was she as much a fool as Yeshua for it? For letting them decide what kind of being she was? A crawly one, a subservient one, a demon and nothing more?  </p><p>               “What does Yeshua mean anyway?” she asked, too annoyed with her own thoughts to dwell on them anymore.</p><p>               “Hm?” It was a short, distracted sound and Crawley wondered if he was falling asleep or maybe even dying. But then: “It comes from Yehoshua, The Lord is salvation.  And Yeshua, meaning: to save.”</p><p>“To save what?” she said. “Whom?”</p><p>Yeshua lifted a hand gestured in an arch from one side of his body to the other. Horizon to horizon, Crawley realized. She wasn’t sure if he meant everyone or everything, but either way...</p><p>               “Well, no pressure there,” Crawley muttered, poking the fire with a convenient stick. She thought that might have got a chuckle, but nothing. What exactly did the world need saving from anyway? It seemed to be getting along fine so far unless THEMSELVES got pissed off and then it was fire and famine and death, but not Flood because THEY had made a <em>promise</em>.</p><p>               Yeshua began to speak then, but softly, almost as if to himself.</p><p>               “Angels sang before I was born, Mother said.” He shifted his hand back behind his head. “That I was a good <em>bubala</em> and never cried or fussed. She told me the bed time story for years of the Magi, the three wise kings who came to pay homage to me… To <em>me…</em>  when I was three. All I remember was that one had a fun beard to tug and I bit the finger of the other.”</p><p>               Crawley chuckled inspite of herself. That was a Son of God she could get behind. Not that she <em>would </em>get behind him because that was just asking for trouble. But, theoretically…</p><p>              “Father said that an angel visited him in a dream and told him we must flee to Egypt because King Herod wanted to kill me.” A pause and a bit of a chuckle. “Probably by threatening him with stuffed dates.”</p><p>              “Angels these days, I tell you,” Crawley shook her head. “Resorting to methods like that.”</p><p>              She had the sudden memory of Aziraphale, eating happily, framed by the Sea of Galilee, white caught in the blue. Were angels even supposed to eat, she wondered? Go—<em>Satan</em> she hoped not. If not morally wrong she hoped it was at least frowned on and that Aziraphale did it anyway. He would do that sort of thing too, she knew. Anyone who would be ballsy enough to give away God’s sword would have no problem eating when he oughtn’t.</p><p>              “What is the world coming to?” Yeshua replied. Crawley wondered what the hell he was talking about, then remembered again the weft of the conversation. The Son of God turned on his pallet, resting his head against the heel of his hand, eyes glittering in the firelight.</p><p>              “When I was twelve, we went to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Passover. Have you been there? The temple is <em>incredible</em> and there were so many learned men, so many teachers and thinkers, Philosophers of God. I couldn’t stop listening to them, couldn’t stop asking questions. It was like my calling. My gift. My hunger. I was there <em>three days</em> and didn’t even notice. Mother and Father came to look for me, worried out of their minds and I was so—deep that I told them that I was in the house of my Father. Heavenly Father, I meant but—maybe it’s the same thing. With me.”</p><p>              He sighed deeply and then looked up. Crawley met his eyes and felt pinned in place, struck through to the Earth, like she was rooted in stone.</p><p>              “You’re right. I am a fool. I didn’t come into the desert for Jehova to speak to me. For Him to give me answers. In my heart, I knew the answers all along. I’ve always known them.”</p><p>              Somehow, Crawley found her voice, but it felt distant and far away.</p><p>              “Then…why…?”</p><p>              A faint smile that was not a smile lifted a corner of the man’s mouth.</p><p>              “I came here to die.”</p><p>              “…Come again?” This time her voice was strangled. Sure that was one way to get out of some donkeyshite destiny, but that was a bit extreme and she wasn’t altogether sure THEY would let even THEIR son get away with screwing up THEIR plans so phenomenally.</p><p>              “Yeshua the carpenter will die in this desert, will be left here among the bones of the earth—and from the heat and clay, Yeshua the shepherd will walk into the world to gather the Lord’s flock that has scattered on the hillsides and become lost. Humble, yes, a shepherd is. Not a king or a prince or a priest. But to a lost sheep? A shepherd is everything.”</p><p>              The poetry was nice but Crawley leaned back as she understood the implications. He was going to embrace this thing. This Son of God thing. Which—was a little bizarre that it was all about metaphorical sheepherding—But the most important and dangerous part was that if Yeshua was going to embrace God then any demon nearby was going to be in a whole boatload of trouble.</p><p>              “You’re not going to smite me, are you?” She tucked her foot under her, ready to push off the ground and run for blazes.</p><p>              “No.” A fond smile but she didn’t trust him until he said: “But I might shake my stick at you if I see you near my flock.”</p><p>              The good humor relaxed her. It probably shouldn’t. She was probably going to regret it. But she relaxed all the same, sitting cross-legged now, her hands curled together on her lap. Yeshua flopped on his back, arms outspread to either side, staring at the pierced dark of the night.</p><p>              “A holier man would accept this easily,” he said after a time. “It’s not that I don’t want to be a shepherd. Part of me <em>burns </em>to act. To begin. To gather.” A soft breath. “It’s not even that I want to remain a carpenter, because between you and me, I’m tired of the feel of sawdust between my teeth. It’s just…” He trailed off. Reached up to the sky again, hands curled as if in supplication.</p><p>              “I’m not ready to give up me,” he said. “I just want more time. For another bowl of wine, maybe. Another slice of <em>challa</em>. Another Festival of the Passover, even, just as me and not as <em>Me</em>. Even it’s a good thing. A holy thing. A right thing.”</p><p>              Quiet again… Then a small self depreciating chuckle.</p><p>              “Do you know, as a boy, I wanted to see the world? It’s not something a carpenter <em>or </em>a shepherd would be able to do, but that that dream is over…” He rested a hand over his heart. “I suppose a part of me feels emptier… when it <em>should</em> be filled with the Holy Spirit.”</p><p>              No, the Holy Dipshit shouldn’t have put so much on him to begin with. Or if THEY were going to do that, THEY should have just made him a god or angel or some other being that had limitless time and no problem … well that did what they were told anyway.</p><p>              An idea hit her. A brilliant idea. Maybe it wouldn’t save him from his self chosen fate, but it might cheer him up a little. She opened her mouth to ask, and then shut it again. No good asking. He’d have to say no. He’d be smart to say no. You didn’t just say yes to a demonic request. So she’d just have to do it then and hoped he didn’t walk back his ‘no smiting’ statement. Instead she got up and clasped her hand around the callused one still raised.</p><p>              “Up you get.”</p><p>              Yeshua blinked at her.</p><p>              “What?”</p><p>              And then didn’t so much as yelp when, with a click of the fingers, she transported them back to the top of the escarpment. He did cling to her robes a bit though, rocking unsteadily on his feet before straightening.</p><p>              “What did you do? What is this?” There was a trace of fear in his voice, but most of it was iron. Any moment now he’d demand to be let down, or maybe go off himself.</p><p>              “Calm down.” Crawley held up her hands. “You’re still in your desert. Look, you can see the campfire down there.” She pointed. “I’m not going to force feed you or make you jump or anything. I just…want to show you something.”</p><p>              Yeshua was giving her a hard look, eyes narrowed. Crawley spread her hands out, palms up.</p><p>              “Just as a friend. No strings at all. Here…” She grabbed up some grit and dust, curling it into the bowl of her palm and then blew it out. The shimmering image of Jerusalem appeared in the air in front of them, a city baking under the hot sun and the blue sky.</p><p>              “I’ve been all over, and I’ll show you. Look! Jerusalem….” She waved a hand and the image changed. “Cairo.” Another wave and Yeshua took a breath. Crawley grinned. “That’s Cyprus. Bluer water you’ll never see in your life.” A wave. “Rome.” After a while another wave. “Nanjing.” And on and on she went, showing him all the places she had been, from the highest mountain to the deep jungle, from where giant creatures called elephants roamed to another scrubby wasteland where small duck billed animals that were, oddly enough, not at all duck-like otherwise, splashed about in the water. She showed him hidden cities, forbidden cities, cities that no longer existed and had long ago fallen to ruin.</p><p>              “Guess Yeshua the carpenter <em>does </em>get to see the world,” Crawley said as they stared at the temple of the Olemeccan capital. A giant multicolored bird flew across the sky, vivid red and blue in its wings. “’Course being the Son of God and all, you could practically <em>rule </em>the world.” Crawley grinned at him. “Maybe you could try that if the whole shepherd thing doesn’t pan out.”</p><p>              Yeshua was looking up, somewhere in the stars, the wind teasing at his hair. He looked noble somehow. Almost as if something was coming, as if some light was growing in his eyes.</p><p>              “Get behind me. Satan,” Yeshua said in a rough strangled voice. It hurt. It hurt more than Crawley suspected it would. Like a dagger might between the ribs. So just like that then? Not that she cared. Why should she care.</p><p>              “I was only joking,” she muttered, turning to go. Sod him anyway and--</p><p>              “No. My friend…” He clutched her arm. “Satan.”</p><p>              “What?” Following his gaze she saw light. A bright star had unmoored itself from the heavens and was falling toward them. Fast. Oh. <em>Oh. </em>Oh shit bugger fuck shit shit shit.</p><p>              “What do you mean, get behind you? You’re four cubits of nothing!” Crawley hissed. “Let go!”</p><p>              Yeshua did and Crawley scrambled down as fast as she could. It wasn’t fast enough. Not near fast enough. No way she’d make it in time. In an act of desperation she swandived behind a huge rock and tried very hard not to exist.</p><p>              There the muffled sound of beating wings and then light shone everywhere, bright light, white hot like a terrible, burning star. <em>No one here but us rocks</em>, Crawley thought desperately.</p><p>              “So here is where I find you,” Lucifer’s voice was sonorous, melodic, terrifying. “In front of all the Kingdoms of the World.”</p><p><em>              Why </em>had she left that up? She should have taken it down! Maybe Yeshua would take credit for it. Maybe he’d let her off the hook. Please, let her off the hook.</p><p>              “You’re not much for a Son of God.”</p><p>              “What is it you want?” said Yeshua, his voice harder than iron now. It was Damascus steel, maybe. Something hard enough to cleave rock in two.</p><p>              “I’ve come to speak with you,” said Lucifer lightly. “To make you an offer. You have to know that all you will receive in the path you have chosen is suffering and poverty and death. But I have been given dominion over all these Kingdoms and more— I can give all of it to you. All the power. All the glory. Anything you wished, no one would be able to deny you. You could create war. You could create peace. And all you have to do—” And pause for smirk, Crawley thought. “—is worship me,” Lucifer finished.</p><p>              That was a really good temptation, Crawley thought. And really good for a last moment one not even knowing Yeshua. But it was nice. Hit all the bases.</p><p>              “It is written: ‘Thou shalt worship the Lord, your God, and him alone shall you serve,'” Yeshua said. There was the sound of shifting stone. Footsteps.</p><p>              “Don’t turn your back on me,” Lucifer snarled. The voice was so menacing even the air seemed to quiver with it. Crawley hunched down against the rock, and then, just to be safe, turned into a small serpent and pressed herself against the rock. Smaller target, he figured. Harder to hit.</p><p>              The footsteps drew closer and she shuddered—then lifted her head as Yeshua walked past. He was scruffy as usual, bone thin, exhaustion under his eyes—but those eyes burned, that step was steady—It was as if the Lord of Evil wasn’t behind him and spilling over with malice.</p><p>              Yeshua looked neither to the right nor the left and kept walking. Down the escarpment. Lost from sight. The white hot light dimmed and then, after a moment, faded completely. It would be nice if it were over, but Crawley had the feeling it wasn’t. No, she could <em>feel</em> it wasn’t. The power hung in the air, not the aggressive malevolence of Azazel, but there, subtle, so huge that she was getting used to the feeling.</p><p>              “Get out here.” The command was quiet. Quiet as drawn steel. Crawley moved, slithering up to the feet of the Morningstar and flattening herself to the ground.</p><p>              “Yessssss, my lord?”</p><p>              Lucifer looked down at her, the brightness still around him making her eyes water. It hurt to look at him in more ways than one. The white robes. The huge white wings. The name which he still bore while hers had been torn away at the root so that she no longer even knew what it had been. Even his eyes were of the sharpest blue. Only the dark hair in curls and cascades down his back was the only evidence of the change, where it used to be golden like the sun. Even that could be again, she knew, if he willed it so.</p><p>              “You knew he was here and told no one of this. Why?”  </p><p>              Crawley shuddered as that sandaled foot came to lay  almost causally across her back.</p><p>              “Told Asssassell I wasss looking, didn’t exssspect to find him—”</p><p>              “And after you had?”</p><p>              Crawley hissed as the pressure increased, pain lancing through her. She didn’t need to breathe, but nevertheless had to fight for breath to answer. As she struggled her mind worked frantically, trying to come up with a lie that would prove satisfying and be easy to say as her lungs were currently being crushed.</p><p>              “Didn’t want to <em>tip</em>--” the foot ground against her and she wheezed. “—our hand. He’ssss clever. Ssson of God. Angelic sspiess everywhere.”</p><p>              “Did you even <em>try</em> to tempt him?”</p><p>              “Yessss.” Black was starting to fold over the edges of her vision. “Food, power, kingdomssss…Urgk.”</p><p>              “Well, you failed.” The pressure released, but Crawley knew better than to be relieved. The next instant she felt the edge of the sandal lift up under her and found herself flying through the air. She just managed to gulp in a breath before the rock she hit knocked it all back out again and she landed hard on the ground.</p><p>              “At least now we know he’s human and potentially <em>can </em>be tempted. Though what that Almighty--” and here Lucifer said a curse so vile that every shrub clinging to the rock face turned black and died. “—Is planning by this I have no idea. It won’t take long before age takes him and none of this will have mattered.”</p><p>              “May be a trial run?” Crawley suggested weakly. There was a long pause. Lucifer came closer and she closed her eyes tightly, waiting for the end. She could feel the Master looming over her.</p><p>              “You are a very clever serpent. You show initiative. You have a quick mind and a ready tongue. It would behoove me to flay the skin from your bones.”</p><p><em>              No, it wouldn’t</em>, Crawley thought. <em>It really wouldn’t. I’d look awful flayed. </em></p><p>              “Instead, I want you to remember who was magnanimous to you when you failed.”</p><p>              “Yesss, my lord. I won’t forget…”</p><p>              “And since you’re the only one in the <em>entirety </em>of hell who has <em>any </em>kind of balls--.”</p><p>              Which was ironic, considering, Crawley thought</p><p>              “I will grant you one request.”</p><p>              She opened her eyes then, startled.</p><p>              “Requessst?” And then because the look on his face told her he had better not have to repeat himself, thought hard, thought quick and then knew just what to ask for.</p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt; </p><p>               The Son of God was leaving the desert. She watched him go, coiled up in the cleft of the rock. It was a dark rock and she a dark serpent and it was far enough away that not even an eagle would be able to spot her hiding place. Nothing had changed, or so it seemed. There was no holy glow around him, no carpet of flowers sprung up at his feet or manna from heaven fluttered down around his head. Only something was different. There was something in the set of his face, the sureity of his steps, the way he was heading in a single direction without faltering.</p><p>He was different. He had changed. Had Become perhaps.</p><p>               She had known it on that last night when she’d somehow not got turned into serpent on a spit by Lucifer himself. She’d slithered down toward the campsite—but something told her not to come closer than the canyon wall opposite. Yeshua had been sitting by the fire, watching the flames with weary body but eyes filled with purpose… and something in her, some instinct, had just known. Yeshua the carpenter might call himself friends with a demon, but Yeshua the shepherd? He was a different person.</p><p>              Reborn, that’s what it was. Made new. The carpenter had died after seeing his dream and the shepherd had walked out from his ashes. It was good, she thought. Fitting. It made sense in a way that she could put her tail behind. If it felt a door had closed somewhere? Well, doors were always closing and other windows were always open.</p><p>              So, she watched, resting her chin on herself, content that he at least wasn’t going to be stupid and die before accomplishing anything. Presently a familiar figure dressed in various whites came out from under the scrubby shade of some fig trees, heading toward Yeshua. Behind him, trailed a laden donkey that kept trying to take a nibble of him. She hissed a laugh to herself.</p><p>              “Well, hello, stranger!” Aziraphale’s faint voice came, carried on the wind. “How shocking to see you come out of the desert finally. You look hungry! But you’re in luck for I am a merchant of—”</p><p>              “If you say stuffed dates I’m going back in,” the Son of God said and another laugh hissed out of her before she could stop herself.</p><p>              “—Er no! No of course not. I’m er… well I have um… You see that is, I have not a single stuffed date but loads and loads of er…”</p><p>              “Falafel?” said the Son of God.</p><p>              “Yes! Falafel. <em>Heaps</em> of Falafel. <em>Mountains</em> of it. Just er… this way. Why not take a ride. Yes. Ouch! You—you <em>blessed </em>donkey! I am <em>not</em> for eating! Honestly.” She watched as the angel, awkwardly as could be, helped the Son of God onto the donkey’s back and then, very faintly, almost out of her hearing said:</p><p>              “Would you mind describing a falafel?”</p><p>              It was a good end for a really long and confusing series of days. And if that were all, she’d be pretty damn content. But maybe, if she was lucky and Himself had kept his word, she’d have something else to look forward to. She coiled herself out of the crevice and flopped on the ground, giving her serpentine body a good stretch before hesitating and <em>stretching</em> back into herself. A sigh of relief as she came back to herself without a scale or a hair out of place.</p><p>              Still some of the hairs on the back of her neck rose as she approached where she’d started this whole journey. The valley of bones, the valley of death, the lair of Azazel. She should just turn around. It would be smarter to just not trust Lucifer and go find some other corner of the world to lurk in for  a few centuries until it all blew over. But curiosity, as ever, drove her forward.</p><p>              As she drew closer she forced herself not to stop as she saw something moving in the shadows. A darker shape. The clatter of bones.</p><p>              And a kid goat, shaggy coat black as night, big red eyes and teeny tiny rounded horns came out of the darkness.</p><p>              “Y-e-eh!” the goatling bleated. “Y-e-eh did thi-i-s!”</p><p>              “I didn’t lift a single finger.” She smirked and bent as if to get a better look at it. “Didn’t we have an appointment for torment or something? What were you planning? A butt to the thigh? A nibble to the finger? Do I have to squat? Because, let me tell you, my back isn’t feeling it today.”</p><p>              “I wi-i-l end y-e-eh, Cra-awley!”</p><p>              “No, you won’t, and my name isn’t Crawley.” Maybe it had been, but maybe she’d changed too. She’d sat and thought and been reborn somehow herself. Sure she was a demon at the service of hell, but she also knew the taste of wine and the beats of changed and she’d tempted the Son of God <em>and </em>the patience of Satan and not discorporated. That deserved a new name for a new her. Something less of an aww and more of an ohh.</p><p>              “It’s Crowley.” Oh, that felt good to say. That felt <em>right</em> to say. It was <em>hers </em>now. Hers and hers alone. She took Azazel’s tiny jaw between her fingers. “Say it.”</p><p>              Azazel glowered.</p><p>              “Can’t you speak? My mistake. I thought you could. It’s a pity because I know a Holy Man. The holiest of Holy Men. And he just got out of the desert and will probably want to give gratitude to THEM and all that… I bet he’d like a nice fat kid goat to sacrifice in the <em>temple</em>.”</p><p>              A tremble went through Azazel and it bared small flat teeth in a snarl.</p><p>              “Crowley…” it muttered.</p><p>              “Nope, sorry. Didn’t hear you.”</p><p>              She was close enough to feel the tiny wash of rage it managed to send out.</p><p>              “Crowley,” it snarled a little louder. She should stop, she knew. She was making an enemy for eternity but she lifted the goat’s chin up a little more and <em>grinned</em>.</p><p>              “One more time for those in the back!”</p><p>              “CROWL-EY-EY-EY!” the goat roared and lunged for her face. She laughed, easily evading it.</p><p>              “That’s my name,” Crowley said, lifting the <em>abaya </em>to cover her hair. “Don’t wear it out.”</p><p>              Then she turned away from the demon bleating in rage behind her, and sauntered from the shadow and the valley of death and into the bright warm sunshine.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Parable of Spirit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They say a Son of God is going to be executed. They can't mean <i>that</i> Son of God, could they? Even THEY aren't so cruel, Crowley was sure. But Hell wanted her to check and so check she will. Only, she wasn't worried. Everything was going to be fine.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>               Crowley made her way down the well traveled road of hard packed dirt as it wended its way outside the walls of Jerusalem. The place called Golgotha, hill of the skull and execution ground was still out of sight. She could already smell the blood that hung thick in the air. She could sense greed, too. Gleeful cruelty. Bloodlust. Nothing uncommon when approaching an execution in progress.</p>
<p>               A part of her didn’t want to believe it. It had only been three years since Yeshua the Shepherd had left the desert. How could anyone get in that much trouble in such a short amount of time? That THEY would cut it so short was also difficult to believe. That was a lot of time wasted on what regarded to not much.</p>
<p>               Not that the Shepherd had had no impact. For example, he’d managed to break up the the Legion legion’s one human house party that had been heading into its second decade by reputation alone. One thousand demons had gone running scared into pigs. Granted the Legion legion had never been the cleverest bunch to begin with. Not only were they terrible with names, they’d subsequently managed to, as pigs, drown themselves. They were the butt of many a joke downstairs and still twitchy around bacon.</p>
<p>               Even so, even a thousand moronic demons were about nine hundred and ninety-nine more than the average person could handle. A Holy Man could maybe handle a dozen more or so with help. But one thousand? Even Hell had been so cowed by Yeshua’s feat that they had had done no more than turn the poor bastards of Legion’s legion into sausage links and hung them up from the rafters. Not bad considering what could have happened.</p>
<p>               That might be because Hell was still intimidated itself by Yeshua the Shepherd. It was so bad that they’d recalled nearly every field agent—including Azazel, still a tiny goat Crowley had noted gleefully from his perch far far away from it—and had demanded information about this so called execution. Of course everyone had been too chicken shit to go near him so no one knew anything and Beelzebub had nearly gone apoplectic.</p>
<p>               It was then, of course, that Crowley had bravely stepped up and volunteered to go see for herself. She had still remembered the general gasp around the room, coupled with tiny, enraged bleating, and had soaked up the admiration of the others. Lord Beelzebub had been suspicious, but you didn’t get to zher position without thinking everyone was up to something. Fact of the matter was, Crowley’s bluff had raised zher in the estimation of the Dark Lord too, so zhe’d sent her on her way with nothing more than impatient gesture.</p>
<p>               Though now that Crowley had had some time to consider the situation, she wondered if it was really a situation she wanted to be in. Hell wouldn’t really be pleased if it <em>wasn’t </em>the Shepherd about to be executed. They hated panicking over nothing and tended to not just shoot the messenger but prod red hot pokers into uncomfortable places as well. If it <em>was </em>the Shepherd, well, no one really knew what <em>that</em> meant because what the there were THEY even planning only letting THEIR spawn have, what? Thirty years?  That end result might yield the same treatment, perhaps with more poker. Either way she’d have to talk pretty fast to get out from under this one.</p>
<p>               Really it would be simple, she thought. It clearly wasn’t Yeshua the Shepherd because that made no sense. Also in the brief moments she’d had to ask around, she had found out that this man was a heretic and had said some pretty awful things. Seemed like a piss poor excuse for executing anyone in her opinion, but what did she know? In any case, none of those things described the human she’d known. </p>
<p>               As she came around the hill, the view opened up. The smell of blood was stronger here. The first thing that caught her eye was not the exectuees already stood up and baking in the sun, but the knot of people—witnesses—who were watching solemnly. Sadness was not an emotion she could feel, really, yet even a human would be able to sense the solemnity that hung heavy in the air as they stood close and watched the third prisoner be readied. She realized she didn’t have to look to know who it would be. Yet she looked anyway.</p>
<p>               Yeshua the Shepherd. They had <em>really </em>done a number on him. People liked a good torture on criminals, he knew, but this was more than just comeuppance. This was <em>vindictive</em>. Torturing the flesh wasn’t good enough apparently, so they’d also decided to make a mockery of him. Torment inside <em>and </em>out. Whatever he’d been saying he <em>really</em> must have spit in the stew. Or maybe in someone’s eye, Crowley thought with a wince as the centurion lifted the hammer and she saw where the spike was going through.</p>
<p>               Naturally the humans weren't the only ones at fault here. No doubt the Shepherd pissed off THEM too or he wouldn’t be here. Oh, sure THEY were usually about a last second rescue. Crowley had heard about Elijah and Daniel, among others. And THEY’d also been known to “test” the living hell out of their own. Yet even that Job thing had been more of a pissing contest with Lucifer anyway.  Which seemed like poor sportsmanship to her, putting Job in the middle of it.</p>
<p>               This time felt different than the others, though. There was no holy crackle in the air, no hint of any kind of chariot, fire or otherwise, swooping down to save him. There was the angel, she noticed, standing off to the side. She half expected him to step up as the centurion lifted the hammer, ready to drive the spike through. That time would freeze or the hammer would turn to doves or maybe even Yeshua the Shepherd would be unable to be pierced.</p>
<p>               There was none of that. The hammer came down, striking the nail with a solid ring and a hoarse cry wrung from the Son of God’s mouth. It was punishment, Crowley knew. For something. Yeshua getting it wrong somehow or <em>really</em> going off the path. Of course he’d be saved eventually. She couldn’t imagine THEY’d let their son die. THEY just wanted to make him suffer a little, that was all.</p>
<p>               But why?</p>
<p>               It didn’t matter why, she knew. And she wouldn’t like the answer even if she heard it. Crowley knew she should leave it at this. That this was enough to report back to Hell. If nothing else, Hell understood a punishment. Curiosity drove her anyway, right to the angel’s side. He smelled faintly of honey and wildflowers today, which was welcome given the other options available. Still she couldn’t help but be a little annoyed at the idea of him just on principle.</p>
<p>               "Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” Crowley said. Aziraphale startled a little, then looked affronted as only he could.</p>
<p>               “Smirk? <em>Me</em>?”</p>
<p>               “Well, your lot put him on there.” Of course the humans were doing all the work, but the Son of God wouldn’t be up there if THEY hadn’t wanted him to be. Stood to reason.</p>
<p>               “I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley.”</p>
<p>               Well, couldn't really fault him for that. Who was? And since she was here, though she doubted the angel cared about the difference, she may as well say something.</p>
<p>               “I’ve changed it.”</p>
<p>               “Changed what?”</p>
<p>               “My name. Crawley just wasn’t doing it for me. A bit too squirming about your feet-ish.” Watch bastards like Azazel make fun of it <em>now. </em>Of course it wouldn’t matter as it was still a kid goat, only no one else could either, which was an unexpected bonus. They couldn’t really well say ‘Crowley, crow’. Wouldn’t make much sense, would it?</p>
<p>               “Well you <em>were</em> a snake,” said Aziraphale, which was also fair even if he preferred serpent. “So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”</p>
<p>               The angel <em>would</em> choose names like that. A demon could get in trouble with names like that. Either she’d be thought of as a right prat or expected to live up to them and it was too much work and trouble. You never saw an Asmodeus bumming a ride with a caravan to try their spiced wine, now did you? A short simple name on the other hand could take you anywhere. And it was nice to hear people scream.</p>
<p>               “Crowley,” she said. Another rain of hammer blows made her grit her teeth in sympathy. They were going to town on him weren’t they? You would think they might have eased up a little, or at least not go full bore.</p>
<p>               “Did you…ever meet him?” Aziraphale asked. He was doing that hand clutching thing again. Last time Crowley had seen that was at the Flood.</p>
<p>               “Yes. Seemed like a very bright young man.” Maybe too bright which was probably what got him up there in the first place. “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”</p>
<p>               “Why?”</p>
<p>               Crowley wasn’t surprised he didn’t know. As far as she’d seen, Aziraphale tended to keep his distance from Yeshua. Probably another policy decision.</p>
<p>               “He’s a carpenter from Galilee. His travel opportunities are limited.”</p>
<p>               The centorian gave the nail a massive blow, sending the nail almost down to the skin and eliciting another hoarse cry. Crowley couldn’t help but wince.</p>
<p>               “That’s <em>got </em>to hurt.” Even given he was the Son of God. Didn’t THEY realize how fragile humans actually were? Even for a punishment, it seemed a little excessive on the poor devil. Aziraphale fingers clutched together and his mouth was pressed into a thin pained line. Good to know he wasn’t exactly happy with it either.</p>
<p>               There was no point in asking why THEY were doing this. She’d like as not get hit with another ineffable. She <em>could</em> try asking around it and maybe get an answer to both questions.</p>
<p>               “What was it he said that got everyone so upset again?”</p>
<p>               “Be kind to each other.”</p>
<p>               “Oh, yeah that’d do it.” Really bad policy decision on Yeshua’s part. No one liked being told all that love thy neighbor stuff. Maybe they were okay with hearing it once or twice, but if you kept banging on about it people were bound to get frustrated. What’s more the Bighead Upstairs certainly didn’t condone that given THEIR track record. You would think that if THEY’d wanted Yeshua to do something specific, THEY would have told him. Of course, that would require THEM to actually communicate.</p>
<p>               The crucifix was raised upright, then, and Yeshua moaning from it. There were trails down the dirt and grime on his face and Crowley wondered if he’d been crying. The thought struck her deeply, right in the gut. He was <em>really </em>hurting up there. Really suffering. And <em>why</em>? Because he didn’t follow the rule book he’d probably never read? Yeshua’s expression knotted and he began to look up. Crowley looked away quickly. A stone was forming in her own throat and if their gazes met, if she knew him—then – then things would get embarrassing really quickly.</p>
<p>               She’d take him for a bowl of Galilee Red when this was all over, she decided.  Sod the rules and anyone who might be watching. He deserved at least an afternoon with someone who knew how shite THEY were. As for this? Crowley was not about to hang around and watch this torture. She’d be tempted to do something and if she did something here she really would end up a crispy pile of soot.</p>
<p>               “Right, well, not much more to see here…”</p>
<p>               “Mm,” said Aziraphale, sounding distracted already. “Yes… see you around…”</p>
<p>               Crowley turned…and hesitated. Could she tempt Aziraphale to come with her? The question came suddenly to the back of her mind like a seedling poking through the earth. A queer feeling accompanied it, familiar and strange all at once. It was as if she saw the opening for a temptation, only instead of wanting to cause trouble or keeping up with her quota, she wanted it for herself.  It wouldn’t be much, nothing so mad as sharing a bowl of wine or anything. Maybe something as simple as just walking out of the execution grounds.</p>
<p>               Are you planning to stay and watch the whole thing?” Crowley said, pivoting slightly to look at the angel again.</p>
<p>               "Someone ought to.”</p>
<p>               Crowley would argue that there were <em>plenty </em>of people staying to watch the whole thing, but she knew what Aziraphale had meant. An angel should stay. To witness this. To see and understand what THEY had done.  She tugged the <em>abaya </em>in place and started back toward the city. Might as well grab a drink or something before she made her report.</p>
<p>               Behind her, Yeshua groaned in renewed pain.</p>
<p>               The strange sorrow which she’d tried to hold back began to bubble up into her throat. She ignored it as best she could. Sorrow did not one damn bit of good. Not for anyone, and certainly not for a demon. There was also no reason for it. Yeshua the Shepherd would be alright. And maybe, when he was finally free, he’d be Yeshua the something else.</p>
<p>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt; </p>
<p>               Two days later Crowley found herself wandering through Jerusalem, wondering at how intact it was. Not a thing had changed. There was still the hustle and bustle and noise of a busy city. Roman sentries still stood guard here and there or drank happily in the taverns. She’d half expected them to charred or cursed or have something else unfortunate happen to them. But no…</p>
<p>               It was all kind of odd considering everything that had happened since then. Crowley hadn’t been in the neighborhood, having come up from Hell a little further out. She’d seen the eclipse, though, and had felt the earthquake that had sent people around her panicking. As well they should. THEIR wrath was nothing to take lightly. If Hell weren’t a bit tetchy with her, she might have gone back herself.</p>
<p>               Only Hell <em>was</em> tetchy, of course. Here she was, having taken the risk to go down there and see who it was <em>and </em>found out what the Son of God was being crucified <em>for</em>. You would have thought that would be enough. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know what THEY were planning afterwards. If she’d hated herself and her continued existence, she might have told them it was ineffable. But she didn’t and so had delivered her report, then had returned to Earth sharpish because you didn’t want to hang about when Lord Beelzebub got that look.</p>
<p>               Maybe it was a good thing, though. While Hell was busy desperately trying to brace itself for the unknown, Crowley was a free demon. Her first stop had been Jerusalem, since it was closer. And, she had to say, she was pretty disappointed to see not one act of vengeance wreaked upon the city. Since she was here anyway, she may as well see what the local taverns had on offer. If she was lucky, she might get information about where Yeshua might have gone. Even if not, she could find him easily enough. Then they could share a good bowl of wine and talk about what a great <em>pill</em> the Almighty could be. Okay, well realistically, she supposed, she would complain and Yeshua would find some way to say it wasn’t THEIR fault and so on. On the other hand Crowley might be able to use the fact that Yeshua’s <em>wrists had been nailed clean through</em> on THEIR leave as leverage.</p>
<p>               This in mind, she spotted a likely trio of Romans sitting at an outside table of a tavern nearby. It was clear they were already deep in their cups, despite it being a little after noon. It was also clear that they didn’t care.  A small bit of lust spiked as she drew near and she couldn’t help but encourage it with a smile and sway of the hips.</p>
<p>               “<em>Ave</em>,” said one of the lads. His voice cracked high at the end of it, causing the other two to laugh and slap his back. Crowley would have been more amused had the word not pierced her. She wasn’t sure why it would. Yeshua had only said it once and it hadn’t even been in that context. She pushed that thought from her mind and smiled instead.</p>
<p>               “<em>Ave</em>.” Seeing one of their cups was empty, she collected it for herself, boldly pouring herself whatever was in the brown jug and tossing it back. It was beer, she thought, or maybe ale, or maybe donkey piss considering how bad it was. Still the same alcohol singed through her veins and set heat up to her face. She could feel the men watching her and set the cup on the table, resting her fingertips atop it.</p>
<p>               “I am looking for the Son of God,” she said. “Have you seen him?”</p>
<p>               Their expressions flattened almost immediately and Crowley found herself staring at three sets of wary eyes. It was the look of soldiers who were off duty and didn’t want to be back on duty except that said duty seemed to be waiting at their threshold.</p>
<p>               “Why do you want to know?” said the dark haired one. The answer was simple. She shrugged.</p>
<p>               “He owes me money.” Which was a good all around lie when you were looking for something. Humanity loved its money and they hated owing money and they really hated the people that came to collect on said money. The trick here was that since the person who Crowley was collecting from was ostensibly their enemy, they might be more willing to squeal. A twisted sort of grin crossed the light haired one’s face.</p>
<p>               “Try Golgotha,” he said.</p>
<p>               "You might be able to sell his shroud,” said the dark haired one. They laughed and clicked cups. What the hell did that mean? Crowley thought, good humor vanishing. Did they think she was stupid? That she’d just <em>believe</em>  something like that when she knew for a fact that he’d been saved by some divine intervention.</p>
<p>               “Guys, that isn’t funny,” said the nervous one, and he looked at Crowley with pure, honest eyes.  “There are many sons of God, my Lady. One was crucified not too long ago, but perhaps it’s a different one? I’ve heard there are some of his followers left in the city. You might ask them.”</p>
<p>               Crowley nodded curtly and stepped away. The moment her fingers left the cup, it cracked and caught on fire with the smell of blazing sulphur. She left their gaping and terrified faces behind her.</p>
<p>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt; </p>
<p>               It would be much easier to be clearheaded about this whole thing if she could find him, Crowley thought much much later.  She was at another tavern, this one at a far seedier side of town where buildings cracked and crumbled and beggars curled against doorways. The ale here was possibly even worse, but it fit her mood. Sour and bitter and watered down. She’d spent the whole day asking around and receiving variations on the same reply. He was dead, he had died, he’d been crucified.</p>
<p>               Well, she wasn’t about to fall for <em>that</em>, she thought with a snarl. He wouldn’t be dead because that would be <em>stupid</em>. That would make <em>literally </em>no sense <em>at all</em>. She refused to believe that even THEY had allowed him to spend forty days in the desert, starving and doubting himself for what? To die three years later after achieving fuck all?</p>
<p>               “I’m not falling for your stupid game,” she growled upwards at the cracked roof. “I’ll find him and we’ll have a drink and if you want to <em>stop</em> that, you’d better smite me now.” Of course THEY didn’t. THEY probably weren’t even listening. Crowley didn’t mean any more to THEM than a pesky flea. Her and half the universe, it felt like. That was fine. It was just fine. She’d have one more drink and let the tavern close. When the sun came up she would search more. She would not <em>give up</em> until she found him.</p>
<p>               She filled her cup a second time, chugged it down, a third. None of it made her feel any better but not having it would make her feel worse. She tried a fourth cupful only to find the jug was empty. Crowley was tempted to have it refilled again, though the round faced tavern keeper was hiding in the back room by now. She was fine with that to. She’d just have to get it herself. She got unsteadily to her feet, weaving a bit—</p>
<p>               --and the door opened letting in a bearded man in simple robes. Crowley’s heart soared and she almost grabbed him by the shoulders to shake the hell out of him for scaring her.</p>
<p>               It wasn’t him, she realized a tick later. Just bore a passing resemblance. The hair. The beard. The scruffy look. This man was taller, though, thinner, and his eyes were hollow and haunted. Crowley ground her teeth. A splinter stung her finger under her nail and she realized she was curling up thin slivers of wood under them as she gripped the table, but fuck it. She’d destroy it. She’d tear it apart with her teeth if she had to. THEY were screwing around with her, that’s what was going on.</p>
<p>               “What?” she snapped at the man who was staring at her. His expression was wary rather than horrified. As if he knew her somehow.</p>
<p>               “You were in Golgotha,” he said. The words were simple but carried with them the weight of stone. Crowley wanted to deny it. Deny the whole thing. Wanted to go back in time somehow and take Yeshua somewhere safe, whatever he had to say about it. Not that there was anywhere really safe from THEM.</p>
<p>               The man was waiting for an answer. Too patiently for an answer. Crowley had no answer to give him. Wasn’t it obvious she had been there? How many other demons had come to that hellscape?</p>
<p>               “I am Thoma…” said the man. “A follower of… I heard you were looking for him.” Pain flickered in his eyes. Crowley wanted to throw the cup at him but managed a short nod. Another pause that seemed infinite and then Thoma said:</p>
<p>               "He is dead.”</p>
<p>               “I dare you to say that again!” Crowley snarled, her hand now gripping the front of the man’s robe. She wanted to throw him out in the street. She wanted to tear those words from his mouth as well as his teeth.</p>
<p>               “He is dead,” Thoma repeated, his eyes without fear.</p>
<p>               “He is the <em>Son of God</em>! Do you honestly think THEY would allow this?! <em>Do you?!</em>”</p>
<p>               Thoma closed his eyes. Took a shuddering breath.</p>
<p>               “He is dead.”</p>
<p>               Crowley shoved him aside and stormed out into the pitch black night. There was no moon, just the empty shine of chilly stars. She still wasn’t beaten. She would keep looking. She would comb the streets. She would search every house. She would find him no matter what it took.</p>
<p>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt; </p>
<p>               Dawn was in the air. It hadn’t come yet. The world was still the quiet blue of becoming. Crowley clutched her arms as she stared at the hill. There were tombs just across from it on the other side. In the end she hadn’t gone into any house. She hadn’t shaken any human awake. She hadn’t combed through the back alleys or braved the temples. Yet she still felt exhausted, like she’d been dragged for leagues and leagues under raging water, caught in the tumult.</p>
<p>               Maybe he’d already left Jerusalem. To Nazareth or Galilee or the bloody bloody desert again. Maybe he’d said sod it and gone further than that. Out into the world, perhaps. Maybe THEY had set him free. Grit picked up by the faint breeze stung her eye and she wiped the wet away. It would be fine. He wouldn’t dead just like that. THEY wouldn’t. She refused to believe it.</p>
<p>               This would be the proof she needed.</p>
<p>               She just had to have the courage to keep going After that, she didn’t know. She didn’t have a plan. Roll back every stone? Check every corpse? Yes… if she had to. To prove her point. To convince herself. It would be <em>fine</em>. Her nails were dull points of pain against her skin as she made her way to the top of the hill.  </p>
<p>               It was a beautiful place, softly green. There were trees here too. Down below, a woman slept fitfully on the grass. She had seen that woman at Golgotha too. One of the mourners. The followers. It’s a lie, she wanted to tell her. It’s all a trick. Don’t believe it. Look they’ve even left the bloody stone off the door. Just go in and check.</p>
<p>               A part of her wondered if she already had.</p>
<p>               So what if she had! Humans recognize things waved right under their noses. She would go down and—</p>
<p>               She stopped.</p>
<p>               There, a fair distance and still walking, a shining figure in blazing white. So white it hurt to look at.</p>
<p>               Aziraphale.</p>
<p>               Mission done then. Going back.</p>
<p>               Nothing to keep him here if it was over.</p>
<p>               <em>Fuck</em>.</p>
<p>               Crowley turned. Walked away. Tripped over a stone and cursed and kept on walking. Walked until the sun rose high overhead. Walked until civilization fell away and nothing was left but the wilderness. The rage grew with every step. The unfairness of it all. The sense that the world was stacked against anybody and everybody who gave a damn. And he had given a damn. People had gathered to listen. They had loved him. They were mourning him. How was that just?</p>
<p>               God didn’t have to be just, the Shepherd had said.</p>
<p>               “Why not just this once?” Crowley snarled to the unforgiving sky, the blinding eye of the sun. “Why couldn’t you have given it to him just this once?! He trusted you! He gave <em>everything</em> for you! <em>How could you just turn your back and leave him behind like he was nothing?!</em>”</p>
<p>               There was no answer. Not a wind stirred. The world was empty. Hollow. Unfeeling.</p>
<p>               “<em>Answer me </em>for fuck’s sake!”  he cried, throat raw.</p>
<p>               There was only silence.</p>
<p>               Crowley screamed, clawing both hands through his hair. It knotted and tangled around his fingers. This hair – He’d had it since he was created. Since before he was kicked out, cast down, left behind.  A sharp flint manifested in his hand and he reached back, cutting through it, sawing it off, feeling the strands give way until it ran through his fingers like the blood that slipped down the back of his neck.</p>
<p>               “This time, you sack of shit,” he snarled, voice hoarse and shaking. “I cast <em>you</em> out.”</p>
<p>               He flung the strands as far as he could away from him, then stormed into the wilderness without looking back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Parable of Yeshua</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's been over nineteen hundred years and Crowley still hates Easter. Between that and a hangover,  not even a lunch date with a certain associate may be enough to cheer him up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              <em>Satan</em>, it just wasn’t fair. Crowley rammed the Bentley up on the curb, narrowly missing the fire hydrant and rested his head against the wheel. It was <em>pounding.</em> His entire body ached and the taste in his mouth didn’t bear thinking about. He supposed even this corporeal body couldn’t handle two weeks of being on a non-stop bender of drinks, more drinks, a pill or two that he <em>sincerely </em>regretted, a snake tattoo on someone <em>else’s </em>bum, thankfully, and some pretty okay music; but was the hangover really necessary?</p>
<p>              He groaned inwardly as Coverdale stopped singing about crying in the rain and said in a smooth voice:</p>
<p>              “Are you there, Crowley.”</p>
<p>              He wondered what would happen if he pretended he hadn’t heard...</p>
<p>              Nothing good that was what.</p>
<p>              “I’m here,” he said, not lifting his forehead from the wheel. He really wished he hadn’t flogged the idea of using radios to spread a dollop of sedition and general malignance to the population at large. All it had ever done was get him in trouble.</p>
<p>              “We have a small task for you in Shropshire.”</p>
<p>              <em>Shropshire</em>? What did they want him to do? Set pigs on people?</p>
<p>              “Sure, look, I only just got back from a really intense temptation so I wonder if—” Too late the information was dropped like a chilly stone right into his already aching brain. It was sodding ridiculous too. Something something about tempting people to rig a local election so x candidate would win instead of y. For what, Crowley didn’t know and didn’t care to ask. He wanted to tell them that it was 1987 for Satan’s sake. They could do a lot more with their time than rig local elections.  </p>
<p>              Instead he said:</p>
<p>              “Right. Got it.” And made sure to take out the cassette before shutting off the radio. Why now of all times? It would be fine if they hadn’t left it til the last minute and he’d rather not pedal off to the countryside when he still felt like death warmed over. Fortunately he was meeting Aziraphale today. Maybe the angel could be persuaded. Course Crowley would have to do a miracle for an even exchange, but at least the angel would let him sleep it off first.</p>
<p>              Crowley lifted his head from the wheel with a grunt. A click of the fingers restored the teased volume of his hair and took a spot he hadn’t noticed from his snake skin trousers. That done he slithered out of the car and sauntered toward the Cheeky Cheese café, a charming little place, Aziraphale had said in his message, that he’d been <em>dying </em>to try. He didn’t know which was more offensive, the name, or the cartoon mouse  with rabbit ears painted on the window making heart eyes at a basket of cheese. At least it would likely be full of dusty old grannies who would be offended and slightly turned on by his look, he thought, pushing open the door.</p>
<p>              It wasn’t a bad place once he got in, he supposed. Sure the cheerful bells jangling painfully above the door he could do without, but it was relatively dim in here and the music was soft and low. Instrumental. Couldn’t go wrong with that, at least not in this environment. Sadly the only old granny there was currently hidden behind a newspaper. Didn’t even look up when Crowley slid into the seat opposite, then kept sliding, making his posture as bad and indolent as he could just in case anyone impressionable walked in.</p>
<p>              “Seems like Teen Wolf is doing quite well,” Aziraphale said. “Though I’m not sure I to imagine what that might be about.”</p>
<p>              “You wouldn’t like it.” There was a pause as he ordered a coffee from the waiter. “Why are you looking? Wanting to watch something?”</p>
<p>              “No. Just passing the time.” He folded the newspaper neatly, taking him in with what Crowley knew to be a critical gaze. “You look like a sight. Have fun in your mush pit, did you?”</p>
<p>              “Mosh pit. And yeah. I even got a souvenir.” He tapped the curving white snake that hung from his left ear. Memory of the band, really. He even hazily remembered getting it—had seemed like an amazing idea at the time.</p>
<p>              “Hm. That is certainly a bold decision.”</p>
<p>              Well, <em>he </em>liked it. It was badass. Rough. Had a definite don’t mess with me this is who I belong to aura. Aziraphale wouldn’t understand.</p>
<p>              He watched the angel miracle white pen and set his spectacles on the end of his nose. Didn’t even need them. Crowley wasn’t sure why he used them aside for the look of the thing.  He couldn’t even think of a way to mock the angel for the vanity of it. Partly because the spectacles <em>did </em>give off a kind of stern angel aura, and partly because Aziraphale would find a way to justify it and his head hurt too much to keep up with that kind of banter.</p>
<p>              “Five letter word for cross,” Aziraphale said. “Apropo given the day, though I think the answer is hinny.”</p>
<p>              “<em>You’re</em> a hinny,” Crowley muttered. It was a cheap shot but a shot nonetheless. At that bout of silence he said: “You know because you’re half horse, half ass.” Wait. “The ass is the important bit.”</p>
<p>              “Yes, so I gathered. Well done.” Didn’t even look up from his crossword for that. Crowley frowned and bumped the angel’s foot with his own under the table, just to show how he felt about that treatment, and then left it there because he was feeling too lazy to draw his leg back in.</p>
<p>              His coffee arrived soon enough, along with a slice of cheesecake for Aziraphale who set the crossword aside to receive the treat. He thanked the waiter warmly, eyes crinkling up at the corners, not that Crowley noticed.  All he could really focus on was spooning two sugars into the dark bitter liquid, as well as a dollop of whiskey for a bit of ‘hair-of-the-dog’.</p>
<p>              “Want a drop?” He wiggled the flask in Aziraphale’s direction.</p>
<p>              “Oh, well just a small one then.” A snifter was produced for it, obligingly filled and slung back. “I’m on duty,” Aziraphale continued, setting the snifter down conveniently close to Crowley’s elbow where another shot was dutifully given. “Well, technically taking a small break from duty at the moment. I do plan to, sometime in the next few hours, go somewhere to improve the ambiance.”</p>
<p>              Crowley hummed to say that he’d heard. Unfortunately, the only witty rejoinders he could think up for that one involved Aziraphale just needing to be somewhere and the ambiance was improved. It was true but he knew better than to say it. He sipped his coffee instead and stared absently at the cartoon mouse, wandering at the rabbit ears.  Across from him the angel sampled his cheesecake and moaned his appreciation in a way that would make even more grannies look up, if there were any. That foot bumped his, probably accidentally. Crowley bumped back anyway.</p>
<p>              Could he fluster Aziraphale by likening what they were doing to footsie? Would the angel even know what footsie was? Crowley tried to think this out, but was distracted by the gnawing sense that he was missing something. Something really big and obvious and annoying. Cartoon mouse. Rabbit ears. Pastel basket of cheese. Aziraphale being on duty…? He tried to connect the dots but they scattered as if picked up by the wind that had started outside. A strand of brightly colored grass twined by in the breeze, giving him an odd sense of dread.</p>
<p>              “What <em>is </em>the day?” Crowley said.</p>
<p>              “Sunday, March 26<sup>th</sup>,” Aziraphale said. “Easter.”</p>
<p>              Oh. Crowley’s mood soured in a way that no amount of whiskey in coffee could fix. Ruddy holiday. He’d always hated it. And hated it moreso because he couldn’t do anything about it. Oh, he could spread dissent and discord. That was easy. And he <em>wanted </em>to because it was grating to see the humans gadding about, all happy and gloating that they were safe now. Only he whenever he tried to tempt someone into sin on this day, he felt somewhat guilty which was an emotion he always tried to avoid. Once you started feeling guilty it really was the beginning of the end.</p>
<p>              So he did nothing. Usually these days he either drank or slept through the holiday, and since he’d already had enough booze in the past few weeks to float a small ocean liner, his bed was starting to seem inviting.</p>
<p>              “Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I did wonder when you agreed to come out. If you wish to leave—”</p>
<p>              “I don’t care,” Crowley replied. He sipped his coffee and fiercely tried to make that a reality.</p>
<p>              “Well, you did seem a bit fond of Him.”</p>
<p>              “Angel, I tempted him in the desert. That was all. It wasn’t personal, it was business.” And it had been so long ago now, he didn’t even remember the man’s face. Actually, most of the reality of what the Shepherd had looked like had been scrubbed away. He’d seen so many other depictions of him that he couldn’t remember which was true or not.</p>
<p>              “If anything I should be happy about it,” he told both the angel and himself. “Look how much evil humans can convince themselves to do now that think they’ve got a get out of jail free card.”</p>
<p>              “They’ve never needed a card for that in my experience,” Aziraphale said. Which was a fair point, and made things all the worse in his opinion</p>
<p>              “And now they have a whole day celebrating his torture and death. Hell would approve.” And it had approved. He’d even gotten a commendation for it way back when, and had accepted it since he wasn’t stupid. He had then proceeded to get blackout drunk and had woken up seven months later in outer Mongolia with a hangover that made this one feel like a walk in the park.</p>
<p>              “I think it’s more celebrating His life than anything,” Aziraphale said. “Reminding others of His sacrifice and so on.”</p>
<p>              Crowley snorted. “You’d think they wouldn’t have to <em>be</em> reminded. Ungrateful bastards.”</p>
<p>              The angel’s foot nudged his under the table, and he reluctantly nudged back, feeling some of the bitterness seep away. He’d rather keep it. It was safer to keep it for his own peace of mind. Only it was impossible around Aziraphale.</p>
<p>              “I mean, what good did it even do?” He didn’t think the angel had an answer for that one. He hoped he didn’t. Some small part of him hoped he did. Aziraphale folded his hands on the table atop the newspaper, but his eyes were elsewhere, staring out over the middle distance.</p>
<p>              “A lot of good, I should think.  Yeshua practiced what he preached and inspired others to do the same. More than that it wasn’t just be kind to your own kind, but to everyone. You know how cliquey humans can be. And even to your enemies. Mercy. It’s no wonder he was unpopular with wisdom like that.”</p>
<p>              And he had been kind, Crowley thought, fingers tight against the mug. Crowley had been an enemy then, if a stupid one. If he’d put more thought into it, she would have tempted the Shepherd properly. Not that it would have worked. Even then—even then the Shepherd had been—it had been almost as if—as if she’d been able to be just herself—Someone more than just the Fallen. Someone who <em>mattered. </em> </p>
<p>              He tried not to think about it. Tried to push those memories back in the darkness where they belonged.</p>
<p>              “True, that message has been used to make humans even <em>more </em>cliquey,” Aziraphale continued. “And twisted to condone horrible things. That’s the price of freedom, unfortunately… When people are allowed to make their own decisions, they may not always be the correct ones.”</p>
<p>              “Bloody sheep, they are.” The Shepherd would probably forgive them, knowing him. Oh, he’d lecture them a blue streak, but forgive them too. He’d hold out a hand, maybe even offer to share a bowl of wine in the cool shade. A moment of respite. A moment of peace. And that seemed to be open to bloody anyone.</p>
<p>              “I think you were a bit fond of Him,” said Aziraphale. If Crowley had a soul it would have left his body.</p>
<p>              “Like <em>heaven</em>, I was!” he snapped. What was the angel trying to do? Get him eviscerated? “Would have crucified him myself if I had half the chance!” It was over the top maybe, but he liked his guts right where they were. And right now they were churning with some sick twisted feeling that he wanted desperately to ignore.</p>
<p>              He needed to get out, that was all. Needed some air. He left his coffee to the side, getting up and heading for the door. He ignored the startled: “Crowley?” behind him and pushed outside, glowering at the jangling of the bells which dropped to the floor with a shattering crash before the door shut behind him.</p>
<p>              It had gone gray outside and the wind had picked up along with the first smatterings of rain. Crowley jammed his fingers in his back pockets and tried to swallow down the feelings writhing within him. He’d buried those feelings long ago. Left them in the desert with everything else. They were dangerous feelings and terrible ones for a demon to have. What was there to be fond of? So what if Yeshua had been kind? Had treated her like she was just… a person, even though he <em>had</em> to have known what she was. Had called her friend?</p>
<p>              A friend would have gotten him down and spirited him away. Except none of his followers had so much lifted a finger. As if they accepted this sacrifice. And had it really been worth it in the end? For a holiday with candy and colorful eggs that had nothing to do with anything?</p>
<p>              The smattering of rain turned to a drizzle, turned to a pour. It was cold. He let it fall where it will, on his hair, on his shoulders, streaking down his face. It had been, literally, over nineteen hundred years. There was no use for long dead feelings he no longer even had. Had never had to begin with.</p>
<p>              The door opened and closed behind him. The next moment, an umbrella popped open over his head. Crowley might have moved away, but the angel was pressed close to his side in order to remain under it himself and he would get fussy if his favorite coat got wet. He smelled like lilies today as well as the French cologne he usually wore.</p>
<p>              Crowley wanted to tell him again that there had been no fondness. That they hadn’t been friends. Wanted to convince them both. Only it would be a bad idea to speak just now.</p>
<p>              “I’m sure you fooled him into thinking so, you foul thing,” Aziraphale said, saving him once more.</p>
<p>              They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the rain patter on the umbrella. Crowley watched a couple in their Easter Best hurry to their car. A quiet click beside him and the poor idiots get exceedingly drenched as they struggled with the doors that had miraculously locked themselves. Watching it improved his mood considerably.</p>
<p>              <em>Bastard</em>, he thought fondly at the angel. Other feelings bubbled to the surface that were even <em>more </em>dangerous to his continued existence. He let them be. He’d given up fighting them centuries ago.</p>
<p>              “I suppose it does seem a bit unjust, all things considered,” said Aziraphale after a moment. “And maybe that’s why the message resonates even stronger. You might not be able to change the unfairness of the world, so be kind, and compassionate and merciful. Spread love instead of hate, and who knows? You may help make the Earth a better place.”</p>
<p>              “Maybe even sell a book or two,” Crowley replied.</p>
<p>              “Well, let’s not go overboard.” The indignation in the angel’s voice made him grin. He felt good enough to unlock the doors with a click of his own fingers, and watched the cursing couple dive into their car.</p>
<p>              “Care to go have a drink, angel? I could use something a little stronger than coffee.”</p>
<p>              “I don’t know…” Aziraphale frowned. “I am meant to be on duty.”</p>
<p>              “No one could improve ambiance in weather like this.” Crowley shifted a bit so their shoulders bumped on pure accident. “Anyway, what better way to spread cheer in a nice warm pub?” He could see the lingering hesitation, and added: “I know of a place that serves a great lamb stew.”</p>
<p>              That perked the angel right up.</p>
<p>              “Lamb stew, you say?” He pursed his lips. “Well, I mean, they can’t really complain if I’m showing compassion to my enemy on today of all days, can they? It’s practically a sign of respect. Or leading by example!”</p>
<p>              “Well if it’s com<em>passion</em> on the table…”</p>
<p>              Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “There is absolutely <em>no </em>reason to make it sound so dirty.” Then he was heading toward the Bentley and Crowley had to hurry to catch up in order to stay under the umbrella. He was feeling better despite himself. He’d never like this holiday, nor what the humans took for granted. And he’d never forgive THEM for a multitude of things, this being one of the many.</p>
<p>              Still, in the end, maybe Yeshua had gotten what he’d wanted. Ancient kings and kingdoms had crumbled to ash since then, even once worshiped gods had been deposed—But through it all, Yeshua’s words and ideas had endured. In a way he was still a shepherd to the lost, the lonely, and maybe even, in some small way, the damned.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>While the ficlets in the Manna From Heaven, Whiskey from Hell series serve as a loose canonical backstory to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180609">A Thousand Little Miracles</a> (a post Apocalypse No fic dealing with love, identity, existential crisis and for the love of SOMeONE just kiss already), you do not have to read that to understand these.</p><p>(Though I wouldn't say no if you did.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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